


i will lose you to the storm

by Fanonymous



Series: longship [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Limited Norse mythology knowledge combined with my delusions, Post-Canon, accidentally watching a fanvid, fanvids got me going, first time writer hehehe, supplying for my own demand, then reading all the fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanonymous/pseuds/Fanonymous
Summary: Ragnar and Ivar's ship is capsized by a storm on the way to England. They wash up on White Harbor. The only captain capable of bringing them home is Arya Stark of Winterfell, so to Winterfell they go.A year after her coronation, the North is prospering, but her achievements don't make up for the feeling of abandonment. Arya is back, but she never stays. A sennight at home for every 10 months at sea. Jon has sent his forgiveness but cannot overcome his shame over all his failings as a ruler and as a Stark. Bran never came home, and what rules in the south can stay there for all she cares.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Ivar & Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar (Vikings)/Sansa Stark, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: longship [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982434
Comments: 26
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work ever, and I mostly did it to satisfy my own delusional demands for this ship. You can thank all the youtube vids on this couple (they're amazing).

_ WHITE HARBOR _

Ragnar wakes up to a cold sun and the burning feeling of water in his lungs. He sits up, spitting up salt water and sees a barren, rocky shore, and the cold sea before him. Ivar lies beside him and a quick check reveals the boy is still breathing. They are surrounded by driftwood and there is no sign of their men.

_That cursed storm! Must have blown us to who knows where and taken my men to the depths as well._

Ivar shift beside him, waking.

_At least, my son has been spared. How many times can he dodge death?_

"Father?"

"Ivar."

Groggily he asks, "... where are we?"

"These shores are unfamiliar to me. I suspect we were blown farther North than we had anticipated. There is an unfamiliar chill in the air and the sky is much greyer than any I have seen before."

Ragnar grunts and gets up to turn around. His gaze settles at a small set of wooden houses farther up the shore on top of a small rocky hill. After another glance at the area for any of his men that may have washed up with them, he kneels down to face his shivering son.

"I spotted a small settlement farther up the shoreline. We will head there and ask for aid. Let’s go.”

Ragnar moves forward, and Ivar tries to get up. He’s a few paces ahead when he realizes that he hasn’t been hearing the telltale shifting of rocks that would indicate Ivar crawling alongside him. Looking behind him, he sees Ivar sitting up, struggling, and trying to maneuver his rusted, frozen braces into getting him standing.

“Forget that thing. Just crawl.”

Ivar testily replies, “With this, I can walk like a normal man.”

Ragnar advances on him, takes him the by the scruff of his shirt and tosses him on his stomach. Then promptly sits himself heavily on Ivar’s back. Ragnar grips the fraying leather buckles of his son’s leg braces and works on getting them off.

“What are you doing?! Get off!”

“I’m not going to stand around all day watching you try to be normal-“

“I AM NORMAL!”

“-when you never will be.”

The buckles have rusted and won’t give so Ragnar rips the leather right off the hinges. Once both leg braces are loose, he grabs them, and standing, tosses them into the sea. Ivar makes to crawl after them, but Ragnar flips him onto his back to face him.

Still frustrated, Ivar says “I can walk beside you; beside my brothers. I can be normal. Give them back!”

Frustrated himself, Ragnar replies “No. You are not normal. Once you realize that, that is when greatness will happen. Now crawl.”

Ivar looks as if he is about to protest, but Ragnar has already turned away and started towards the settlement. A few breaths later, and Ivar starts painstakingly crawling. Ragnar slows his pace to allow him to catch up.

_ WINTERFELL _

_Arya only comes home for a sennight every few moons, and she can’t spare more than a few moments for her sister._

After holding court, Sansa roams the halls in search of her elusive sister. It’s been a year since the Targaryen Burning of King’s Landing; a year since Bran was crowned King of the Six Kingdoms; since Jon’s self-imposed exile; a year since the start of Arya’s exploration.

Bran is lost to her. She suspects he’s been lost since he went north of the Wall. He sends no ravens, no news. He couldn’t make it to her coronation, at least that’s what she assumes since he hadn’t actually spoken to her since the Dragon Pit meeting where he was chosen as king.

Brienne stays with him in the south, and though she doesn’t see the knight as a friend like Jeyne Poole used to be, she was a trusted confidant, nonetheless. Her current Queensguard have been chosen for political reasons and she trusts none of them like Brienne. Sweet, loyal, honorable Brienne, whom she tasked to stay in King’s Landing to watch over her brother, thinking that she’d be fine with her sister-The Hero of the Long Night’s protection.

Of course, that had to mean that Arya would immediately pack her bags and set off on a ship for “what’s west of Westeros”. Just another reminder of how they may see eye-to-eye now, but there are some things that she will never share with her sister (a longing for exploration and a strong grasp of geography).

_Where is that girl?_

It was hard not to feel abandoned when only moons before they were saying “the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”, united against a would-be tyrant dragon, and a lioness looking for Stark blood sitting the Iron Throne. It was like through their adversities, they had learned only to stand together when there was something to stand against.

As for her bastard-brother-turned-cousin Jon, she had sent a raven to the Wall as soon as she was crowned. Two moons passed before she received a reply simply saying:

**_“I can’t”_ **

As if there was a Wall left to defend, or that they had not made peace with the Freefolk by marrying Alys Karstark to Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn.

_Honestly, how long would he need to brood about King’s Landing and the Dragon Queen?_

Longer than a year apparently,

Since then, her monthly pardons have gone unanswered, but she will sometimes see Ghost roaming the perimeter; letting her know Jon is still alive, and still as protective as ever. It doesn’t escape her notice, that Ghost is more present when eligible Lords come to visit.

Another problem she may have to solve on her own: the Stark Legacy. Bran, if she could call him that, sits the Iron Throne, his heirs—if any—will belong to the South. Jon may have retaken the Black’s vows of chastity for all she knows. Which is why it is imperative that she speak to Arya right away.

She’s hoping that Arya at least keeps in contact with her blacksmith-turned-Lord of Storm’s End-turned-back-to-blacksmith ex-lover Gendry Baratheon. That Dragon-owning maniac at least legitimized Gendry before her death. She probably didn’t expect him to immediately assign Davos regent, abdicate, then ask to stay on as Winterfell’s blacksmith.

He's been pining away since Arya left, it would be pathetic if she couldn’t relate. She knows he’d asked Arya to marry him, and that she’d refused him, but she can’t give up hope now.

Sansa is a romantic at heart, and she knows her sister was rejecting his expectations for her to be a lady rather than Gendry himself. She hopes they’ll get their stubborn heads out of their asses, marry, and give her nephews and nieces to spoil and name her heirs. Her young rule needs the security of an heir, and Sansa would like children to dote on. The walls of Winterfell crave the sound of troublemakers constantly running afoot and of hardheaded rascals climbing up its walls. Sansa still remembers Rickon as he was. Toddling in the adorable way only a babe can with mother bent at the waist holding his hands as he tries to catch up to Bran and Arya. She remembers the sound of wooden swords clashing in the yard accompanied by the taunts of an arrogant young Kraken and the attempted peacekeeping of a young Robb.

She doesn’t need Arya for this, she knows, but the alternative is not something she likes to think of until she absolutely has to.

It’s almost as if every other day, she’ll hear Maester Wolkan tell her that she is still of a young, marriageable age, and that his tests assure him that she can still bear children. Sansa wants a family, that much has never changed about her, but after her disastrous previous political marriages, she hopes that she will at least be able to marry for love this last time around.

_Still a romantic under the steel, apparently._

She heads to Arya’s rooms, though by this time of day she knows it’s a long shot. Still, it can’t hurt to check.

Two right turns and up a flight of stairs later, she comes face to face with the door of her sister’s rooms. She doesn’t bother knocking, thinking no one is in there any way and that it’s probably locked, and pushes the door open. It swings back with barely a noise and she is suddenly in her sister’s solar.

Three connected tables face the window adjacent to the fireplace. It’s overflowing with maps, blank scrolls, and strange measuring devices. Behind it sits a large sphere of an unfinished painting. Approaching it, she can see that Westeros and Essos are painted on it, along with a strange unfinished land mass to the west. Scattered on the other furnishings are Arya’s many weapons, boots, cloak, and is that a jerkin?

Sansa has made her sister clothing before, so she think she has a good eye for her sister’s measurements already and this jerkin is definitely not Arya’s. She walks further into the room to examine it, and that’s when she starts hearing certain sounds from her sister’s-

_Oh gods Oh gods. Okay at least i don’t have to worry about that._

Sansa rushes out the room as quietly as she can, her face still burning. There are some things a sister doesn’t ever need to hear.

_ WHITE HARBOR _

Ragnar is not too proud that he can’t admit his son’s weight is starting to wear him down. He has been carrying Ivar on his back for the past 2 hours.

The cabin they had arrived at was abandoned and emptied, not furniture for kindling left behind. Though there were no supplies in the little cottage, their new vantage point allowed them to spot a large pale stone structure about 3 hours further. A green flag with a strange pattern of a fish-person flaps in the wind. Numerous white and green sailed ships are docked behind it.

After a short respite from the frigid sea breeze, Ragnar stood to leave. Ivar had stopped shivering, but his arms were starting to shake from the exhaustion of dragging himself along. Surprising Ivar, he hoisted him on his back, being careful to carry his legs.

“I can-“

“Now is not the time for you to try and prove anything to me.”

Humiliated, Ivar shut his mouth and clenched his jaw to prevent further contentions to spill from his lips.

They travelled like that in silence for 2 hours when Ragnar suddenly set his son down against the roots of a large tree and sat down facing him.

“I can crawl the rest of the way.”

“And have us arrive there in twice the time and collapse in exhaustion?” Ragnar scoffs

“I can do it.”

Ragnar shakes his head and doesn’t reply, adjusting himself to lean against another tree’s roots.

“I’m sorry I brought you here.”

The words sting and Ivar isn’t sure if the burn he feels at his eyes is from sadness or anger.

_Sorry you brought your cursed, crippled son on your final chance for glory. Sorry you hadn’t brought another son instead. What will it take to get you to see me as more than a cripple, father?_

As if reading his thoughts, Ragnar rolls his eyes at him. “I can see from your expression that you think I speak of bringing you instead of one of your brothers. You misunderstand. I’m sorry I brought us out on this fool’s venture. I do not think I will be making it back to Kattegat this time, Ivar.”

Ivar opens his mouth to question him, but Ragnar continues.

“I’ve been having visions, terrible visions since we set out on this raid. Your mother begged me not to bring you, her dearest child, but in the face of our insistence what could she do?”

Ragnar’s face transforms into one of barely concealed anguish when he tells him “You will be going home; I swear it on my life.”

“I’m not going without you.”

“If the people we are approaching are in any way connected to King Ecbert or the Saxons, I will have to die.”

Crossing his arms petulantly, Ivar answers “Then I’ll die too. I’m thinking of being burned alive-“

“Don’t be stupid.” Ivar’s anger rises and he opens his mouth to interrupt but, Ragnar cuts him off before he can start “I don’t want you to die. It is far more important that you stay alive.” Ivar’s mouth hangs open now in shock and Ragnar gets up with a grunt and approaches him.

“People don’t think you are a threat, an unfit son of my line,” It hurts to hear his thoughts echoed by his father “but I know differently. Out of all my sons, it was you I needed to bring here. And it is you that I believe is most important to the future of our people.”

Leaning forward and nodding at his father, Ivar cruelly replies “I’m just about prepared to believe you.”

Ragnar rushes him and grips him by the shoulders “Shut up and listen, idiot!”. He shakes him “You have many gifts. Your anger is a gift.” Pressing his finger to Ivar’s temple “What is in here is a gift. You do not think like other men. You are unpredictable. And those gifts will serve you well.”

After a beat of silence, Ragnar steps back and loosens his grip on Ivar’s shoulders. “Use your anger intelligently, my son, and I promise you one day the whole world will know Ivar, the Boneless.”

It feels shallow to think that what touches him first is what Ragnar calls him.

**_My son_ **

To be seen as an equal to his brothers and a worthy legacy as a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, his father’s pride; things he thought might be too far out of reach for a cripple, cursed by the gods. Those things might not be as unattainable as he had thought.

“I wish...I wish I wasn’t so angry all the time.”

Ragnar scoffs and presses his forehead to his son’s “Then you would be nothing.”

Ivar’s eyes turn downcast and he smiles wryly “I might have been happy.”

“Happiness is nothing-“

Ragnar is interrupted by a swift and loud smack to his bald head and Ivar’s words “I was only joking, idiot.”

He rears back to let out a harsh laugh and Ivar takes the opportunity to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. Once Ragnar calms, he stands and brings his son into his arms once again.

“This might be the 4th time I’ve ever held you...”

Ivar relaxes into his father’s hold and they continue their journey, no longer silent.

_ 1 HOUR LATER WHITE HARBOR _

As soon as they enter the gate, they are spotted by two guards. One, short, with pale hair and dark eyes; another burly looking one, with a surly face. The guards approach them and Ragnar stops in his tracks.

“State your name and purpose in White Harbor.”

“My name is Ragnar Lothbrok, and this is my son Ivar. We seek aid in getting ourselves home to Kattegat.”

The smaller and younger looking guard looks up at them confused “Kattegat?” then turn to the larger guard “Is that the name of the new Freefolk settlement?”

The other guard shakes his head “I don’t know, but it’s not some place I have ever heard of.”

Ragnar sighs defeatedly “Then perhaps you know King Ecbert or Aelle,” Ivar tenses and grips his father’s shoulders warningly “they would offer a handsome reward for my capture. I only ask-“

“Ecbert? Aelle? The only sovereigns Westeros acknowledges are King Bran Stark of the South and Queen Sansa the Good who rules an independent North.”

The guards now look at them with pity and share a silent conversation before turning back to them.

“Follow us. We will present you to Lord Manderly and you may plead your case with him.”

Ivar, who has been silent during the entire interaction looks around critically. The courtyard they have entered is surrounded by tall stone walls lined with walkways. They entered through a thick, heavy door, reinforced by a steel gate. People bustle about into and out of offshoot tunnels carrying sacks of produce, cloth, raw ores, and live animals behind them. 8 soldiers in all-in-all watch the courtyard and each tunnel.

_One way in, one way out. Easily defendable. Large stores, but also a large population to feed. Undermanned. This place could last maybe 2 months under siege under the best conditions. Perhaps there is another, less guarded entry point, probably on the other side, facing the sea._

Ragnar is led by the smaller guard while the larger guard flanks him. They pass tall white towers of stone and are brought before the widest hall yet. There is a short line of people waiting to enter. For every set that exits, another is allowed entry. It is barely any time at all before it is their turn.

After a quick inspection where they are asked to surrender their few weapons—three knives from Ragnar, and two thicker daggers from Ivar, they are allowed into the hall. It’s a cavernous space. Long wooden tables and benches have been pushed to the sides. At the front of the room, a jolly-looking white-haired pudgy man in varying shades of green clothing sits atop a large high-backed chair. Behind him to his left hangs a banner with the same strange patter as the flag—a half-man, half-fish holding a three-pronged trident. To his right hangs a banner depicting a stylized side-profile of a grey snarling wolf.

The old man speaks “And what is your petition?”

The guards that escorted them bow before speaking.

“My Lord, these two men claim to need assistance in returning to their home “Kattegat”, and speak of strange rulers named Ecbert and Aelle.”

“There is no such known place in Westeros or Essos. And to my knowledge, there have never been rulers with names such as those in Westeros.”

The halls are silent until Ivar suddenly speaks. “Lord Manderly, I am Ivar son of Ragnar. My father and I were blown into the shore by a storm. We suspect that the storm has brought us further north than we had anticipated. We ask for safe passage home in exchange for an alliance with our people, strong warriors and shipbuilders; Vikings.”

Lord Manderly looks intrigued by this and asks “Vikings? Yes, I think i have heard that word before. The old wives’ tale about the origin of Pyke. Founded by exploring raiders called Vykings who could not find their way home. A settlement of warrior men and women, expert boatbuilders, but crap farmers.”

He continues his musings silently, mumbling to himself occasionally, when suddenly he stands and calls for them to approach him. A steward brings forth a map, and Lord Manderly gestures for them to point examine it as well.

“Is any of this familiar to you?”

Ragnar sets Ivar down and silently eyes the map a few moments more before he shakes his head. “None but this.” And he points to a small island off Skagos. “But even then, to my people, it is little more than a mythic place. An oasis among the ice and far too dangerous to dare tread.”

Lord Manderly nods along, but he is visibly troubled. “You are currently here.” He says as he points to a symbol on the map that says White Harbor. “There is only one captain who might have the knowledge to bring you home, but she is away to her home of Winterfell at the moment. Whether or not she can or will bring you back is a question only she can answer.”

Ragnar and Ivar share a look “How do we get to this Winterfell?”

Lord Manderly looks them up and down as if they’ve lost it, then points at another spot in the map much farther inland than White Harbor. “This is Winterfell. By the state of you two, and with no horses, I imagine it will take you about half a sennight’s worth of travel or more.”

Ragnar won’t complain, but the muscles of his arm and back seem ready to revolt at the prospect of carrying Ivar the rest of the way.

“Is there any way we could borrow a cart or a horse for the journey?”

“I’m afraid no-“ Lord Manderly is interrupted by the sudden slamming open of the doors and the entrance of a peculiarly green-haired young lady.

“I am not marrying Ser Harry!” she shouts, glaring at the red-faced lord.

“You are 17 years old! It is high time you have at least been betrothed!”

“I will not be sold off to the highest bidder like a prize catch!”

“Young lady, your impertinence is unacceptable and we will discuss this later in priv-“

Unhindered, the little lady marches forward, no longer yelling and with a fierce victorious grin on her face. “I’ve spoken to Wynafryd, she’s already sent an escort to bring me to Winterfell with blessings from the Queen to join her staff as a lady-in-waiting.”

Even more red in the face, and sputtering like a particularly angry bonfire, Lord Manderly looks as if he’s about to either throttle the girl or pass out. “Now see here, Wylla, I am the head of this house and you will obey me-“

His tirade is cut short by the sudden entrance of an older woman with the same features (lacking the green hair). “Goodfather, I am sorry to interrupt, but I have just received a missive from the Queen. It requests Wylla come to Winterfell at once to serve as one of her ladies-in-waiting. It seems to have been dated an entire sennight ago. No doubt the actual escort is nearly here as well”

Just like, that Lord Manderly deflates completely and rock back onto his chair. He looks resigned, but mutters, “A queen who refuses every suitor, and suddenly it is as if marriage alliances are no longer the under the prerogative of the Head of the House.”

Wylla looks extremely pleased with herself and her mother is stone-faced. “It will be alright, grandfather. I’m sure I have much to learn and plenty of people to meet, seated at the foot of a Queen.”

“That is exactly what I fear.”

“And I am already packed, so you need not worry about anything.” After a quick peck to her grandfather’s cheek, she grabs her mother by the arm and practically skips out of the hall.

Lord Manderly sighs, “Well at least it looks like your journey to Winterfell will be much easier and faster. You can travel with my granddaughter’s escort. I’m sure there is space in one of the carts among her many trunks.”

Ragnar and Ivar share amused glances before shallowly nodding at Lord Manderly “Thank you, Lord Manderly, for your aid.” They are waved off and brought back out of the hall. It is night outside, and their escorts look ready for a long night of rest. They are offered two spots in the barracks to rest their heads, and as soon as their heads hit the pillows, they sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The father-son duo arrive at Winterfell and Sansa gains a lady-in-waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be the first to admit that i am terrible at geography so let's just pretend it makes sense. thanks.

_ WINTERFELL _

After 2 days of hard travel, Wylla’s party finally approaches the gates of Winterfell. It’s tall, fire-scorched walls still standing tall. Sounds of construction come from what used to be The Broken Tower. Every wall carries that same snarling wolf banner. Though the snows fall lightly, and the winds blow cold, inside Winterfell’s walls lies a strange ambient warmth, as if winter’s cold could not indeed pierce its broken walls.

Wylla hurriedly dismounts and rushes to a taller, more severe looking woman dressed in a plain looking deep green gown under a thin cloak. The sister, perhaps?

“Oh Fryd!” She launches herself at her older sister who barely manages to stay standing after the surprise assault.

“You would not believe how boring it’s been since you left home! All grandfather ever wants me to do is entertain knights and lordlings, as if I was some sort of jester or minstrel. _Ugh_! And you would agree with me, I’m sure because each one just seems to be more boring and shallower than the last. I should’ve gone off like you did. Oh, I should’ve insisted grandfather let me go with you if only to escape his insipid matchma-“

Wynafryd clamps one hand over her exuberant sister’s mouth and the other arm goes to keep Wylla’s arms from gesticulating wildly like some possessed juggler. “I’m happy to see you too, Wylla. Let’s continue this conversation in private after you’ve been presented to Queen Sansa.” She removes her arms from her sister, and pats imaginary dirt off her skirts. “Shall we?” She says as she offers her arm for her sister to take.

“Good thinking, Fryd. And might I just say, you’ve gotten so much stronger since you’ve left home...” with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, whispers “Should I assume someone’s been training you as a warrior? A certain dark-haired-“

Pressing her hand to her sister’s mouth again, Wynafryd blushes “Be silent” she hisses directly into Wylla’s ear. At which point Wylla bursts into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

“If you cannot behave, I will ask Queen Sansa to send you back home and back to Ser Harry and his kind.”

“I’m quiet! I’m quiet.” Wylla insists, pretending to lockstitch her lips sealed.

A sudden clamour fills the courtyard, and both sister’s turn to the source of the noise. Ragnar and Ivar were getting out of the cart when they were suddenly rushed by the castle’s guards.

“Who are you?! What are you doing among the Lady Wylla’s belongings?!”

Wynafryd turns on her sister “Wylla, do you know these men?”

Wylla chuckles and fiddles with the ends of her green hair “About that, I might have forgotten to send a missive to ask for permission to bring those two with me. Sorry” she says sheepishly.

“Wylla! This is not some joke! You know entry to Winterfell is by royal invitation only! I stuck my neck out for you, trying to convince the Queen to let you come and take refuge from Grandfather’s schemes here in her home. Oh gods, you literally only had to get here.” Complaining as she walks towards the scene.

Wylla jogs after her “I’m sorry okay? I was just so excited to see you, see the Queen, and get out from under grandfather’s thumb. I left as soon as the escorts arrived. Grandfather was the one that told them to accompany me. I assumed he sent a missive ahead of us detailing their purpose here.”

“Wait. What are you talking about? Do you not know these men?”

“Well not really, I pushed the party to travel as fast as we could and that didn’t make for a lot of talking. I know they’re father and son, and that they’re trying to find a way home, but that’s about it”

Arriving at the scene, the guards step aside for Wynafryd and Wylla. Wylla hangs back with the guards as Wynafryd advances on the two Vikings. “I am Lady Wynafryd Manderly, the green-haired twit behind me is my sister” Wylla huffs angrily behind her and rolls her eyes “She says that our grandfather, Lord Manderly sent you here. Why?”

Ragnar stands from where he is kneeling and puts his arms up beside his head. “Lady Manderly, I am Ragnar Lothbrok and behind me is my son, Ivar. We were advised to seek counsel with an Arya Stark of Winterfell who could perhaps deliver us home.”

Wynafryd looks suspiciously into his eyes when her gaze is suddenly brought to Ivar who is struggling to get off the cart on his own. “That is all well and good, but why is it you need Arya Stark to see you home specifically?”

“We were blown in by a great storm, and according to your grandfather’s maps, we are nowhere we can identify.”

“It pains me to say it, but he was right to send you here. Arya Stark is the only captain in Westeros brave enough to travel out further West beyond the Sea’s Breath. Unfortunately, it doesn’t change the fact that he should have sent a missive asking for permission for your arrival first.”

Ragnar nods along and Ivar pushes his legs over the cart’s edge.

“Nothing to be done about it now.” Wynafryd sighs dejectedly while Wylla bounces on her heels excitedly behind her. “Please follow me.” Then, addressing the guards “I can take them to the Great Hall from here.” She takes hold of Wylla’s arm and starts walking forward, assuming the father and son would follow her lead.

Ragnar turns to help Ivar off the cart when it suddenly lurches forward causing Ivar to fall off, landing painfully on his legs. He exclaims loudly in distress causing Wynafryd and Wylla to turn around in alarm.

Ragnar bends down to pick him up, but Ivar pushes his arms away from him. “Wait! Wait. I just need a second.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Ivar. Let me carry you.”

“Get away from me. I said get away!” Ivar breathes deeply for a few more seconds trying to stem the stinging pain in his legs.

Wynafryd gestures for a monk wearing a strange series of rings on his neck like a chain to approach them. He hobbles over after running back to a small alcove to get a wheeled chair.

Gesturing for Ragnar to step away, he kneels down to inspect Ivar’s legs. After gently palpating and seemingly tapping the area while simultaneously looking at Ivar’s expression, he leans back and reports “There seems to be no break of the bone. Have his legs always been like this?”

Ragnar nods mutely and Ivar opens his eyes to try and push himself on his stomach. Ragnar turns to the monk man to ask why it is important, but he’s already standing and heading for his wheeled contraption. He pushes it over to them and gestures for Ragnar to help him lift Ivar onto the chair. Between the two of them and the debilitating pain in his legs, Ivar’s resistance is paltry, and he is soon seated on the wheeled chair.

They head towards Wynafryd wearing a concerned expression on her face while maintaining the iron grip she has on her sister’s arm to keep her from bouncing about the castle walls.

“Please follow me, it would not do to be late to a meeting with the Queen.”

_ SANSA _

In Winterfell’s Great Hall, Arya sits on her sister’s weirwood throne while Sansa paces by the windows. The fire burns low behind them and for a long time, its soft crackling is the only sound that fills the cavernous space. It is peaceful for a few minutes, until Arya let’s out a loud and annoyed sigh.

“I can hear you thinking from over here, Sansa. Is there something you want to talk to me about?”

Sansa is silent for a few more moments before she evasively replies “No, it’s nothing... I was just computing grain stores and thinking on what else needs to be done in the glass gardens and-“

“You’re lying. What is it you’re really thinking of?”

Huffing, Sansa’s shoulders relax and her face adopts its icy countenance “I’m thinking about Wylla Manderly. Wynafryd has-” She turns so she misses the way Arya freezes for a half-second when-“requested I take her on as a lady-in-waiting. I’ve all but kidnapped her from Lord Wyman, and she arrives soon. I’ve not had anyone attend me since Shae.” And here some of that icy facade melts to reveal genuine fondness.

_Sweet, loyal, brave Shae. I wonder where she is now if she’s even alive. I wonder if she knows how far I’ve come since acting the silly fool in King’s Landing. I wonder if she’d be proud._

Bristling, Arya sits up straighter “Try again, Sans. You may be a good liar, but I am your sister, and unless you want another game of faces played in these walls, you will speak your mind.”

Sansa rolls her eyes and chuckles good-naturedly “Fine, fine. If you insist. I went to visit you in your rooms two days ago to speak to you about something important. I walked right into your solar, thinking you wouldn’t be there and, um, heard certain noises emanating from your bedroom indicating you were indisposed.”

Arya blushes, but is otherwise unaffected “Well you’ve found me now and as I am not currently indisposed” she waggles her eyebrows delinquently at her sister, “go ahead. What was this important thing you wanted to talk about?”

Sansa holds her arms behind her back and squares her shoulders. “I wanted to talk to you about marriage.”

“Why Sans,” She says comments jokingly “you know I’d extend my land leave for your wedding. Who’s the lucky lordling who gets to be consort to Good Queen Sansy Pants?”

“It wasn’t my marriage I wanted to discuss... It’s yours.”

Completely serious now, Arya gets up to face her sister “No.”

Sansa grabs her sister’s hands “But you and-“

“We are not having this conversation.”

“You just make each other so happy and-“

“We. Are. Not. Having. This. Conversation.”

“Imagine how cute the children would be.”

“Children?! Sansa are you completely mental?! We are not there yet. Thank you for your concern over my happiness, but my exploration isn’t over. I’ve barely glimpsed the other side of the Sea’s Breath and I know there is more yet to discover. If I hadn’t run out of supplies to repair my ship I’d still be out there perhaps making landfall at last, meeting locals, or encountering strange new animals and cultures.”

Sansa pulls her sister’s hands closer to her and responds sternly “I know you still want to see what’s out there, but you have a duty to this house-“

“I know my duty, and it can wait a few years more. Sans,” And here she breathes deeply and clenches her eyes shut “can we please not talk about this?”

Sansa releases her hold on her sister’s hands “...I’m sorry, it’s just that-“

Arya cuts her off testily, “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I know you only want what is best for our family. I just ask that we hold off further talks about this until I’m back from my voyage for good.”

Standing straighter, Sansa breathes out deeply “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“... Arya, at least tell me if you’re happy.” she whispers quietly.

“I’m not sure if I remember what real happiness feels like anymore. Satisfaction is easy and oh-so transient. True happiness is not something either of us can recall easily, is it? Maybe the only happiness we’d ever have was that of our youth. Ignorant and blissful. Am I happy? I don’t know, but I’m home and I’m surrounded by people I love, and that’s as close to happiness as I can stand.”

Arya stands to leave the room. She walks across the hall, towards the large main doors, and takes a step outside before she turns and sends Sansa a smile that isn’t mischievous or smug. Something altogether beautiful, and afraid, and possibly happy.

Sansa sits herself back down on her chair heavily, crosses her legs, and takes off her direwolf crown. Slouching into her seat, she cradles her head in one hand and lets her crown hang off the other. She wishes she could be satisfied with the short visits from her sister, and the glimpses of Ghost she sees as she walks on the battlements. She wishes Winterfell didn’t feel as large as it does, bereft of Starks and filled to the brim with ghosts and memories of everyone she has ever loved and lost.

Her dark musings are cut off by the sound of 2 short horn blasts. A new arrival, friendly; Wylla Manderly.

She places her crown back on her head and straightens her spine.

_To steel_

The doors open and—to her surprise—4 people enter.

First through the door, Wynafryd’s firm gait is unhindered by the strong grasp she has on her sister’s arm. Wynafryd Manderly served as her sister’s first mate and the most knowledgeable shipmate on her crew, she owes Wynafryd an immeasurable debt for looking out for her sister and accompanying her on her adventures. Her request to invite her sister to Winterfell was nothing compared to everything she does for Arya.

Lagging slightly behind is green-haired Wylla. To be completely honest, it wasn’t just Wynafryd’s request that convinced her to invite Wylla Manderly to Winterfell. Wylla is the only remaining heir to White Harbor, her father and uncle both perished in the wars, one to Robb’s and the other to the Long Night’s. Her grandfather is too old to seek another bride, and with Sansa’s ascent along with the long history of Mormont women who have kept Bear Island safe and secure, he can rest easy knowing no one in the North would say she is unfit for ruling just because of her sex. The girl’s motivations matter little to Sansa even though she knows what it’s like to try to escape an unwanted betrothal. Wylla can lead with or without a husband. It’s unfortunate to say, but Sansa can’t sacrifice good relations with House Manderly over the wishes of a girl.

Wynafryd’s request tied it all well nicely. She removes the blame from Sansa’s hands and makes it a family matter, she has brought her younger sister into Sansa’s sphere of immediate influence, and she has put it in her mind that she owes Sansa and not the other way around.

Slowly, a rugged and dangerous looking bald man enters, pushing a younger angry looking man into Sansa’s hall. He approaches cautiously, and it doesn’t escape her notice that his charge is taking stock of the hall with quick and subtle glances about him even though he hides his gaze under his hair.

“Wynafryd,” she gestures for her to step forth.

“Your Grace, may I present to you my sister, Lady Wylla Manderly to serve as your lady-in-waiting.” So saying, Wylla curtsies deeply, “It is an honor, Your Grace.” then bounces back up to her feet.

This causes a small, indulgent smile to sprout on Sansa’s face.

“Welcome to my home, Lady Wylla, your sister can show you to your quarters, and we will discuss your duties once you have had a chance to wash up and—if you can convince your sister—explore the halls of Winterfell.”

“Many thanks, Your Grace!” Wylla practically exclaims as she drags her sister from the Great Hall as soon as Sansa nods her dismissal.

The door creaks closed and Sansa’s face returns to an icy neutral as she sizes up the remaining occupants of her hall. The bald and bearded man stands behind his charge protectively. One hand on his shoulder as if to offer his support. After a shallow bow, he stands, and his posture is changed. There is something almost kingly about this man. No, not a king; a conqueror, and Sansa has had enough of conquerors in her home. As he does not come with an army he expects Sansa to feed and house, Sansa is willing to hear him out.

Her gaze drops slowly to the younger man in the chair, and he finally gazes up to meet her eyes. Such curious things, they ought to remind her of another pale-eyed man and all he’d done to hurt her, but these eyes don’t shine with cruelty like they did. There is something both calculatingly cool and furious in his eyes. Sansa doubts it is because of something recent, it’s not like she had them delivered to her in chains. Neither of them breaks eye contact until the bald man slaps his other hand on his charge’s shoulder causing him to startle and look back in alarm.

“Queen Sansa, I am Ragnar Lothbrok, and this is my son, Ivar, the Boneless. We are from Kattegat.”

“Those names do not sound Westerosi, nor do they sound Essosi, or Bravosi. Where is this Kattegat?”

“Much farther than the maps Lord Manderly presented to us have ever reached.”

“And what might I do for you, Ragnar Lothbrok and Ivar the Boneless?”

Ivar speaks and she is surprised to hear that his voice sounds much younger than he looks, perhaps Robb’s age. He locks gazes with her again, and his expression is inscrutable to her. “We were told to find a Captain Arya Stark.”

Sansa cannot hide a quick frown at his words. She feels as if he wants her to be afraid of him.

He continues “Lord Manderly has told us that she may be the only one who can take us home, so he sent us here.”

“You are in luck, my sister is indeed on land for the time being, but I am afraid she will remain so until her ship has been repaired.”

“May we speak directly to Captain Stark regarding this matter?”

Nodding, she responds “You have my permission, yes, but I am afraid Arya can be quite elusive even for me. She comes and goes whenever she pleases.”

Ivar’s reply is cut short when Ragnar starts shuffling towards her as if in a trance, and if he expects her to cower or shy back, he will be disappointed. He surprises her by suddenly falling to his knees, still a foot away from her. One of the banners behind her shifts. Blood starts trickling slowly but steadily from his nose, and with a crazed, desperate look in his eyes, he begs her.

“ _Save my son_ ”

He collapses, face first, at her feet. Ivar pushes himself out of his chair and crawls toward him.

“Father? Father?!” he cries, shaking Ragnar’s unresponsive body.

Sansa is already at the door, calling for the Maester’s assistance. He had been standing right outside of the door and hurriedly makes his entrance. Two guards follow behind to assist him. He reaches Ragnar’s side but is nearly sliced open by the knife that is suddenly in Ivar’s hands. The Queensguard hidden in the room, advance toward him, quickly disarm him, and start pulling him away from his father.

“Let go of me! LET GO OF ME!”

Sansa speaks calmly, “Calm yourself, Ivar the Boneless, we are only trying to help him.”

“NO! LET GO! LET GO OF ME”

“If you cannot calm yourself, you will be sent from this room.” She chastises.

He struggles continuously against her Queensguard and it takes 2 men to subdue him. A third man hold his sword to him from a standing position by his head. He’s stopped yelling, but he still tries to crawl toward his father.

Maester Wolkan turns Ragnar onto his back and calls for Sansa. The guards who have assisted him stand further back and avert their eyes.

Sansa looks down at Ragnar’s face, his mouth wide open as if caught in a silent scream, his nose no longer bleeding, his skin turning paler by the second, and _his eyes glazed over a milky white._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please review! I'd really like to know if you have any suggestions or corrections for me :)))


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be the first to hear your saga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fudged the ages, I'm sorry. I also fudged the geography, so lol :P

_ RAGNAR _

Ragnar gasps awake to the skies of home. He stands slowly and looks around him. It is Kattegat as he knew it as a child. He startles when he sees a younger version of himself and Rollo running across the fields. He doesn’t remember this. The scenes of his childhood seem to blend together into one bright and naive saga of sunlight and adventure.

He sees his younger self nearly go toppling face first onto a sharpened scythe left on a stump after the day’s work. The only thing holding him back is his brother.

“The saga of Ragnar Lothbrok could have ended right there.”

Ragnar spins around to find the source of the voice and sees a young man, much younger than any of his sons, simply standing and watching the scene with him. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“Do you think the people you have fought, conquered, killed; do you think they would still be alive today if you had never gone down this path?”

Ragnar answers him with silence.

“But it’s pointless to imagine, isn’t it? The way things are, this is the only way it could have been, the only way it was meant to be.”

The boy’s toneless and emotionless musings do nothing but further confuse him. He approaches him with the intention of shaking him by the shoulders and getting a less cryptic answer to his questions, but before he can do so, the young man shifts into a raven and flies overhead.

“Odin!” he gasps.

He tracks the bird’s flight with his eyes and comes face-to-face with himself. Still younger, but he sees it now, the want for adventure and glory that has come to define his life. He sees a younger and less jaded and less hurt Lagertha holding an infant Bjorn to her breast. He remembers this much better. He comes home from farming pleased, but unhappy. His gaze turns beyond them, towards the horizon over the open seas, towards the unclaimed glory of faraway lands.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and it guides him away from the scene. He grips the hand holding his shoulder and is surprised to feel how cold it is. Was this truly Odin, or was it a Jotunn come to take him away?

“So strange that you are so quick to think I am a god. Had you not renounced them only a few moons ago?”

Ragnar comes face-to-face with the strange boy and repeats his earlier questions. “Who are you? Where am I?”

In that same toneless voice, the boy replies “I am the Three-Eyed Raven, but you have heard my other names spoken many times before.”

“Where am I?”

“...You already know the answer to that, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“Then why?”

“Because you needed to see it.”

Ragnar shakes his head and looks once again to the sky. He is surprised to see it is night. Looking back in the direction of his home, he sees the lights emanating from it and starts to walk towards it.

When he is at the door, ready to push it open, he wakes again.

_ WINTERFELL _

Sansa gasps at the sight of Ragnar’s expression.

_Bran?_

Seeing his father’s face renews Ivar’s struggle to crawl toward him. He pushes one guard off of him and the man standing at his head pushes his sword closer to Ivar’s throat under his chin, drawing a bead of blood. Ivar looks up with absolute hatred in his eyes, but he does stop struggling. He shifts his gaze to the red-haired queen sitting stock-still at his father’s side.

“Please... he is my father.” He pleads with gritted teeth.

She shakes herself out of her trance and looks at him. Once again, he is struck by the cold, icy blue of her gaze, but where there used to be no expression in them, he can now read something else.

_Pity_

And how he loathes to see it directed at him.

“Let him approach.” She commands, and the guards step away from him. He quickly crawls to his father’s other side. The monk with the chain pushes his father onto his side facing him. Out of his periphery, he sees Queen Sansa gesture for the guards to bring over a thick cloth hammock suspended over two boards of solid looking wood.

“Father?” He asks. Then he turns to look the red-haired queen in the eye “What is wrong with him? What did you do to him?”

She rolls her eyes at him, and that only increases the anger he feels for this woman.

“I have my suspicions as to what is ailing him. There is nothing to do but wait for him to wake. I have seen this happen just a few times before, to my brother.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that she hadn’t answered his second question. He is somewhat grateful to her for not rising to his offenses. He remembers now that he has been speaking to the queen of this land and ought to hold his tongue if he wants her help.

The monk’s two assistants get his father onto the hammock and lift him. Someone else drags him back to the wheeled chair he was pushed in on. They quickly exit the hall, and the doors close behind him, cutting off his vision of the red-haired queen. She is sitting on her throne once again wearing a thoughtful but calm face, as if a man hadn’t just collapsed on her floors.

The monk brings them to a room filled with different herbs and potions. A fire burns in the hearth with a pot of boiling water set over it. There are books lining the walls, except for a small door to another room which remains closed.

The monk instructs the two men, “Place him on the cot. “

They place his father on a small bed further in the room and push him further in so that he may sit and watch over him. He grabs his father’s hand as the monk grabs a corked vial of clear liquid from his desk. He uncorks it and brings it under his father’s nose to inhale. It smells irritatingly sweet. He looks displeased at the lack of reaction and Ivar starts worrying even more but remains silent to let the monk work.

After a minute, he tries again with another substance, but his father still refuses to wake. The monk steps back and huffs in frustration. “I’m afraid we will just have to wait for him to wake.”

Ivar silently watches his father let out a long exhale and close his eyes. The monk pats him on the back, and he tenses up.

“It’s alright, boy. The worst has passed. We must simply be patient now. Come along, we will allow your father to rest whilst I look at these legs of yours, shall we?”

Ivar feels the chair draw backwards suddenly and is tempted to let his body simply fall off the chair, but self-preservation wins out. The monk brings him around to face a desk with a small stool beside it.

The monk slaps his own forehead and seats himself on his little stool. “How rude of me, I am Maester Wolkan, the current maester of Winterfell. I specialize in the healing of children and women who are with child.”

Ivar nods listlessly towards him, still looking over his shoulder towards his father.

“Let’s take a look at your legs.” The maester continues. He then proceeds to lift one of Ivar’s legs up gently and place it on his lap. “May I have your name?”

Ivar turns his attention back to Measter Wolkan “I am Ivar, the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok.”

The maester acknowledges his introduction with a nod. Once again prodding and poking at his legs. “Can you feel this, Ivar?” He asks as he presses a little harder onto Ivar’s calf.

Ivar tries not to flinch at the sudden pain, and answers “Yes.” Noticing his concealed pain, the maester loosens his hold and lessens the pressure. Putting down one leg, he repeats the procedure with the other.

Satisfied with his examination of Ivar’s legs, the maester gets up and goes to his desk, pulling out a glass lens from one of the drawers. He exhales onto it, then wipes it on his robes. “Please lean forward and look into the glass.”

Ivar does so, flinching only a little when the maester nears his face to look into the glass. Trying to distract himself from the feeling of the other’s man’s breaths on his lips, he looks back into the glass and is a little disoriented at the much smaller picture of Maester Wolkan’s face behind it. He endures the discomfort for the few minutes it takes the maester to check both eyes.

“Interesting.” Maester Wolkan mutters to himself as he gets up to search for a book. He scans the spines of the books on the left most wall, all the while humming a light-hearted tune to himself. His eyes alight on a thick tome and he pulls it from the wall. “Here we are.”

He places the book onto the table gently, and freezes just as he is about to open the book. “How old did you say you were again, Ivar?”

“21 winters, as of this year.”

“Interesting indeed!” The excited maester opens the book with gusto, flipping pages left and right causing dust to fly about his desk. He settles on a text-filled page and exclaims “Aha! Here we have it.”

“Have what Maester Wolkan?”

“Your condition. I’ve found the term for it. You aren’t boneless, my boy, simply fragile. If I can be frank, it’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

Ivar looks into the book, but the language is not something he can read, there are some characters that look very similar to those from home, but the others are completely alien to him. Instead, he nods along and lets the lively maester continue his zealous speech.

“Tell me, were you born with this condition?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am absolutely sure that this is the disease you have. It is the brittle bone disease. It means that you were born with very weak bones. Most children with this affliction live short and painful lives, but the fact that you have lived this long is an anomaly, a happy anomaly though, to be sure.”

“Does this mean that there isn’t a cure?”

“I’m afraid that it has not yet been discovered. This disease was more common when the Targaryens were still marrying siblings to each other, but since they’d started dying off there have been no reports of new cases.”

Letting his chin rest on his crossed arms on the desk, Ivar stares at the unfamiliar symbols on the pages as the maester continues to flip. He spots a diagram of the wheeled chair he sits on, next to it: a pair of metallic leg braces, not that different from the pair his father had thrown into the sea. “Wait.” He says, interrupting the maester’s quick page turning by placing a finger on the diagram “This.”

Maester Wolkan looks at the diagram under his finger. “That? It’s obsolete, archaic.” He comments, gesturing at the line that crosses it diagonally. He tries to turn the page again but is stopped by Ivar’s finger still on the diagram.

Ivar pulls the book toward him as the maester offers very little resistance. A closer look reveals that they are in fact very similar to his lost pair. Maester Wolkan looks impatiently at him.

“Do you have any of these?” He asks, gesturing to the drawing again.

Maester Wolkan shakes his head indulgently, “I am afraid not. Like I said, those bracers are no longer the standard of treatment. They put too much strain on the bones of the feet and cause many small breaks, but not to worry, I’m sure Queen Sansa will let you have this wheeled chair for the duration of your stay—or longer if need be.”

Ivar is silent a few moments before he turns to the maester and requests “May I borrow this book?”

The Maester nods his assent, and Ivar continues before he can reply verbally. “And can you direct me to your smithy?”

Maester Wolkan stops nodding suddenly and looks him deeply in the eyes. “You’re a stubborn one, aren't you? I'm starting to understand how you've lived this long.”

Ivar bristles at the man’s coddling tone, but before he can open his mouth to retort, the maester reaches the door to the hall. He opens it and calls for one of his assistants to come in.

After sharing a quick, hushed conversation, he turns back to Ivar. “This is Wyllem. He will bring you to the smithy. If you really want to have a pair of these made, I suggest you speak to a Gendry Baratheon when you get there.”

Ivar thanks the maester and is brought out to the hall. They go down a long hall and make a turn before reaching a snowy courtyard. Ivar memorizes the route and takes note of the many alcoves and tapestries that line the walls. Some of them depict a monster with glowing blue eyes and horns encircling its head like a crown.

_Jotunn?_

Others depict a warrior man atop a dragon with the head of a wolf fighting a woman sat atop a giant black dragon. But majority are tapestries of a family. The longest one depicts the family tree of what he can only assume is the ruling family. Another shows a scene with a set of parents with 7 children standing next to distinct wolves. Some are of the queen. One as a girl in a tower with poison tears dripping from her eyes. Another as they saw her today, only in much more ornate and resplendent clothing and surrounded by raised swords.

Shortly, they arrive at the smithy where they are greeted by the oppressive heat of the forge and the clanging sound of metal being hammered. Wyllem leaves him by the entry and goes into the smithy. A young woman with a long face and grey eyes exits nearly unseen from a side door. If Ivar had been any less observant, he doubts he would have seen her go. The clanging stops and a moment later, Wyllem steps out accompanying a tall and broad-shouldered man with thick arms and soot marks on his face.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

Ivar opens the book to the page with the diagram to show him. “I need something like this.”

The smith takes the book out of his hands to examine the diagram more closely. He takes a nub of coal out of his pocket and rips a blank piece of parchment from the last pages of the book. He walks over to a stone bench further from the smithy to set down his materials. Ivar makes to follow him by crawling out of his chair when the blacksmith turns around and sees him still in the same spot.

“Oh gods, I’m sorry. Here let me help you with that.” He runs over to stand behind Ivar and grabs two handles on either side of the chair’s back to start pushing him forward. Once they are by the bench again, he steps on a pedal at the bottom of the chair and takes a squatting position beside Ivar. “I’m Gendry Baratheon, the head blacksmith here.” He introduces himself, wiping a hand over his pants and offering it out to Ivar. Ivar grasps his forearm and gives it a strong shake. “I am Ivar, the Boneless.”

“Okay, Ivar, see the diagram here.” Gendry says, pointing at the book “It’s a little too old-fashioned for my tastes.”

“Mine as well.”

“Good, then you won’t mind if we sit here a while and tweak it a bit, yes?”

“Not at all. I have a design in mind actually.”

Ivar pushes himself out of his seat and onto the ground beside Gendry. Sitting up with his legs under the bench, he grabs the coal nub out of Gendry’s hand and slides the blank sheet over to his side.

“I had a pair of these before.” He narrates, while drawing them out on the parchment. “When we were washed ashore, they had rusted and frozen stiff, so my father threw them out to the sea.”

With a few swift strokes, his diagram is finished. Gendry points at a few portions to ask questions on their function, and when his questioning is finished, he asks Ivar to hand over the charcoal. After sharpening it against the rough surface of the stone bench’s underside, he takes it to the paper to draw out his design. Admittedly, much swifter and cleaner than Ivar’s.

“What do you think?”

Ivar takes his time to study the design. It is much more elaborate than his old one, but it uses much less steel, probably to make it lighter.

Hearing no complaints, Gendry continues. “And I think you could use a crutch, simple wood would do, but if we incorporate a leather bracer for the arm, it would make it much easier to use and might help it last longer as well.” He says as he draws the design for the crutch next to his diagram for the leg braces.

Ivar is impressed to say the least. “How will I pay you?”

Gendry simply shakes his head, picks up his materials, and stands. “Any resident of Winterfell has -“

“I am not exactly a resident.”

“Oh?” Gendry questions him with a raised brow and crossed arms. “Then what are you doing here?”

Ivar notes the defensiveness of Gendry’s tone and raises is arms to the side, palms facing out. “Looking for a Captain Arya Stark to take us across the sea and back home, and waiting for my father to recover from his sudden collapse.”

Gendry tenses when the name Arya Stark is mentioned, something that does not escape Ivar’s notice, but uncrosses his arms and wears a friendly smile afterwards.

“I assume that you’ve been presented to the Queen, yes?”

“Yes, just this morning.”

“And you’re still here. That makes you an honorary resident.”

Seeing Ivar’s doubtful expression, Gendry laughs. “If you haven’t been booted out immediately, it means you have a right to stay. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone has prepared rooms for you and your father to stay in while you’re here.”

“Not a cell?”

“A cell?!” Gendry loses his self-control and bends backward in laughter. “You are a funny one, aren’t you? Are you sure your name isn’t actually Ivar, the Humorous?” He asks jokingly.

“I fail to see the humour in my question, blacksmith.” Ivar remarks lowly. His gaze intensifies on the blacksmith’s exposed neck and belly. His awareness of the unconfiscated dagger sitting in his hidden arm holster becomes more pronounced.

Gendry, sensing the change in the atmosphere stands back straighter. “No harm meant, Ivar. Relax.”

Ivar knows he shouldn’t start any fights while he’s here, but the stress of the day is catching up to him. Their icy reception, his father’s collapse, being poked and prodded like a specimen, and finally this, being laughed at. It’s all finally taking its toll.

He takes a deep breath in to try and control his steadily growing temper. Gendry notices his tense silence and brings him back to the forge.

“Anyway, this should take me about a sennight to do on top of my regular duties. Shall I send for someone to take you to your rooms?”

Ivar simply shakes his head, still unable to make eye contact lest he lash out and do something stupid. Gendry heads back to the forge carrying his supplies and the book with him. Ivar grabs hold of the wheels and uses them to roll himself forward and away from the forge. Noting the lack of surveillance on himself, he decides to take a look around at his surroundings and study them more closely.

_Underestimating him just because he’s a cripple. One day, he’ll make them all pay for it._

He heads toward the sound of clashing wooden swords and targets being shot at. Though the wheeled chair takes a little experience to navigate, he still makes it to his destination. He sees a courtyard of young men and women, children really, taking turns trying to smack each other with light wooden swords. Instructing them is the man who held a sword to his throat in the Great Hall. On the other side of the yard, older children learn to shoot arrows; taking instruction from a stern-looking old man.

The sword-fighting instructor hears his approach and turns around to smirk at him. And how his blood boils at the sight.

 _I will split your skull in two._ The angry voice in his head roars.

Turning back to his students, the instructor suddenly yells out for them to stop. Approaching Ivar, he rolls him to sit in front of the children. He opens his mouth to speak, and Ivar can tell by the look in his eye that he is about to be made the butt of some stupid joke, so he beats him to the punch.

“How would you all like to see a true sparring match?” Ivar asks the children.

The children look at him in question. One brave soul looks to their instructor, “But Ser Jonnel, isn’t it dishonourable to...” She quiets off once she sees the annoyed expression on Ivar’s face.

Ser Jonnel, standing behind him, can’t see his expression so he simply answers the child’s unfinished query. “Quite right. There is no honour in defeating those who cannot –“

Ivar succinctly interrupts him “The only dishonour to be found on the battlefield is defeat. I propose to spar with your instructor to demonstrate this.”

The student’s look intrigued now and start clamouring for a spar. Ser Jonnel looks at him questioningly but shrugs his shoulders in feigned resignation “So be it.”

He hands Ivar a dull, heavy blade, and unsheathes his own blade, obviously well cared for and sharpened dutifully.

Ivar sits himself on a stump by the training posts, letting his legs hang off the edge. Ser Jonnel faces him.

“I have defeated undead monsters and fellow anointed knights that could give even Jon Snow a challenge. This victory brings me no honour.”

Ivar looks him in the eye and smirks, cocking his head toward one shoulder. “Imagine how you’ll feel when you lose.”

Incensed, the knight charges Ivar with a quick thrust towards his left shoulder. Ivar easily parries the blow and swings his sword around to attack Jonnel’s open left side. Jonnel blocks him easily and pushes against his blade. The knight, noting how his arms strain to push against Ivar’s sword, quickly disengages and feints to the right. He steps back, away from Ivar’s reach, and swings his sword around himself in a figure-eight motion.

_Show-off_

Ivar’s face is a picture of intense concentration. His gaze never leaves his opponent, so the moment that Ser Jonnel’s hand flexes, he is ready to block the swing strong enough to lop off his head. Using the interlocking of their crossguards, Ivar pushes Ser Jonnel’s blade over his head.

Angered, Ser Jonnel strikes at Ivar’s left side again, only to be blocked by the same manoeuvre. He parries the responding swing to his head and is nearly gutted by the upward swipe that swiftly follows. Ivar follows it up with strong swings from seemingly random directions, and the knight is surprised to see himself on the defensive. He tries to turn the tables by putting all of his weight into a thrust towards Ivar’s right shoulder after he parries the last swing with two hands.

Ivar grabs Ser Jonnel’s outstretched arm with his left hand and _pulls._ This unbalances the knight enough for Ivar to cross their swords and swing him around holding the blade against Ser Jonnel’s sword and pushing it towards his neck.

Panicked, the knight once again pushes all his weight against the sword Ivar holds, but is surprised by the quick loss of its resistance. Twisting to bring around his sword to the back of Ivar’s neck, his swing is stopped by the strong grip of Ivar’s left hand as he feels the weight of the dull blade rest against the back of his neck.

The entire yard is silent for a few moments, as if all the attendants hold their breaths.

“I-I yield.”

Ivar lowers his sword and taps Ser Jonnel with the flat of his blade in reconciliation, but he is ignored as the knight huffily walks off. The children gather toward him. Some stay back, wary of the crippled stranger who beat a seasoned knight in one-on-one combat. Ivar is unfamiliar with this kind of attention and quickly finds himself surrounded by excited children, mostly the girls and smaller boys, asking him to teach them some of his manoeuvres.

Ivar is easily overwhelmed by this flattery and acquiesces with a nod of his head. He instructs them to pair off and face each other. One boy, smaller than all the other children, finds himself without a partner, so Ivar gestures for him to approach. He sits on the ground so that he may be at the child’s eye level.

He has him thrust slowly toward his right shoulder, so that the others can see him demonstrate how to grasp the sword arm and use it to pull their opponent around, then swings his other arm up in order to hold his blade to the level of the child’s neck.

He lets the boy try it next and with a little practice and pointers, soon all the children in the yard can do it.

From the opposite side of the yard, the older instructor dismisses all the children and starts approaching Ivar. Before he can open his mouth to speak to Ivar, Ivar turns around and gets back into his chair. The old man loses him in the crowd.

As he leaves, he picks up a sharp knife that has been left in one of the training posts by one of the training children; he assumes.

He wanders into a wooded area, still within the walls of Winterfell. The sounds of the wind whipping through the trees are akin to whispers, harsh and biting. He heads deeper into the woods, towards a large bone-white tree with blood-red leaves at the centre. The sound of his approach causes the person he now sees sitting by the roots to stir. From behind, all he can see is the red of their hair, and the crown upon their head.

“Pardon me, Queen Sansa.”

Keeping her head bowed toward the tree a little longer, “Ivar.” She sits up to face him. “How is your father?”

“He sleeps still.”

Nodding her head, she simply leans against the tree more comfortably. It annoys him that she is completely unaffected by his presence. Surely, Ser Jonnel would have complained to her about his defeat in the training yards today already.

Closing her eyes, she breathes in the frosty air deeply through her nose.

_Open your eyes. Look at me._

The thought startles him. Her gaze usually discomfits him; completely closed off which contrasts so much with the clarity of her blue irises.

Ivar gets out of his chair and approaches the small pond by her feet. She opens one eye to watch as he dips a hand into the hot water to wash the grime from the training yard and earlier travel off his face. Sansa watches on with a bemused expression.

With his eyes still closed, Ivar asks “Is something amusing, Your Grace?”

Sansa hides her smile behind her hair. It has been a long time since someone outside of her family has spoken to her so frankly. It’s a breath of fresh air.

She doesn’t answer so he sits up straighter after washing his face a bit more. It has been too long since he has been able to actually wash himself. His skin smells of the sun, and he still feels residually sticky from the sea water and sand.

Doing his best not to wince, he drags himself over the large roots of tree to sit beside the young queen. Perhaps reducing the space between them will be enough to discomfit her. She watches him warily, but does not move away. As he makes his way toward her, he hears an ominous snap from behind him. She hears it as well and shifts her gaze toward the sound.

He tenses when she smiles widely at whatever is behind him.

“Ghost. Here, boy.” She holds out her hand in front of her.

He looks behind him thinking she has lost her mind; calling to a spectre.

He comes face to face with a wolf; snarling, pale, red-eyed, and larger than a horse.

_Fenrir_

Oddly enough, no sound comes from the creature though he bares his teeth quite menacingly.

Ivar, viking that he is, bares his teeth back at the beast.

“Ghost,” Sansa calls again, “come here.”

Surprisingly, the wolf obeys her and walks around Ivar to lie on her feet, the picture of innocence. She leans down to his snout to give him a kiss between his eyes and some head scratches. Moving to his side, she works on untangling some matted portions of fur with her fingers gently while humming a sad tune.

Ivar takes his seat beside her, still focused on the now docile wolf, fingering the knife he has hidden in his arm braces.

Sansa takes the time to study him. She hadn't noticed it before, but the whites of his eyes have a strange blue tinge to them that make the blue of his irises seem to glow. His hair is shorn extremely short on the sides, but the top portion holds many braids until they meet to form a small queue at the back of his head.

_He could be quite handsome if he ever smiled._

Sansa continues her subtle inspection of him.

_I see how he could have defeated Ser Jonnel._

After a few moments without being attacked by the wolf, Ivar relaxes back into the tree and meets Sansa’s inquisitive gaze. Too afraid to break the silence, they both continue staring at each other until Ghost starts whining at the lack of attention.

Sansa looks back to Ghost and continues her work on his fur. Without looking back at him, she asks.

“How have you found your rooms, Ser Ivar?”

“Ser? Please, just call me Ivar.” He responds.

“I am afraid that would not be proper, _Ser_ Ivar.”

Smiling, but letting the topic drop, he answers her original question. “I haven’t actually been to my rooms, but I am quite happy that I’ve not been placed in a cell.”

“Well, if a cell is all we have to beat, I am sure you will enjoy your stay here in my home.”

Feeling braver now, Ivar reaches out with an open palm to let the wolf smell it, but is ignored. Sansa shakes her head at the wolf’s behaviour and decides to introduce them.

“Ivar, this is Ghost, my cousin’s direwolf. Ghost, this is Ser Ivar, a _guest_ here in Winterfell.”

When Ghost huffs, he re-attempts letting his hand be sniffed. Ghost gives his hand one brief sniffle before he goes back to ignoring him in favour of the woman pampering him. Emboldened, he places one hand on the wolf’s head and gives it a gentle scratch.

“Hello, Ghost.”

An hour passes with them just like this, Sansa combing out Ghost’s fur with her fingers and Ivar petting the large wolf lightly.

Once Sansa finishes with his fur, Ghost stands up and bounds away. Sansa stands as well.

“Pardon me, Ser Ivar. I have been absent from my duties long enough. Will you need help getting back to the keep?”

The offer of assistance would usually anger him, but the earnest way she offers it makes that impossible. Ivar makes to shake his head, but decides to accept her offer instead.

“If you would be so kind, perhaps you could have someone bring me to my better-than-a-cell rooms?” He asks jokingly.

Sansa is shocked by his teasing and laughs before she can hide it behind her hand.

Ivar is surprised that her laughter isn’t musical or tinkling. She laughs like a normal person, but he enjoys the way her body fully melts from its icy veneer in her happiness. He can’t help the small smile that grows on his face in return.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people get closure, and some people get closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself cry like an idiot :P

_ WINTERFELL- GODSWOOD _

He forgets to wipe the small smile off his face even as he is approached by a small woman. The same woman he saw walking outside of the smithy. She doesn't speak to him as she takes position behind his chair and starts pushing him out of the Godswood. Part of him is tempted to ask her to leave him be for a few more minutes in order to let him process his thoughts, but as soon as they exit the Godswood, the tantalizing aroma of food invades his nostrils and he remembers that he hasn’t actually eaten today.

He is brought to his rooms and the door is pushed in. His smile is wide when he sees his father standing by one of the small beds. Taking hold of the chair’s wheels, he rushes toward his father while Ragnar takes two large strides to meet him. They embrace strongly and Ragnar lays a comforting hand on Ivar’s head.

“How do you feel?” Ivar asks.

“Better than I’ve ever felt since we landed here.” He answers as he playfully ruffles his son’s hair.

Pulling back from the hug, Ivar pushes his father’s hands away from his braids. “I am not a child, father.”

Looking back, he sees that the woman who brought him here is gone, and that she's closed the door behind her.

Ragnar sits on the leftmost bed, closer to the door. Ivar takes a look around the room so that he may better tease the queen if she asks about how they find it again. The two beds topped with furs are positioned along the back wall with a narrow window between them. There are simple trunks at the foot of each bed. On the right side of the room, there is small fireplace.

He notices now that though it is not lit, the room is still sort of warm.

Adjacent to the door is a simple wooden desk and chair, with a slightly used candle lies. Paper and ink are placed in one of its drawers. Opposite the desk and in front of the leftmost bed is a basin sitting on a wrought metal stand with a simple mirror on top.

 _Definitely better than a cell._ He continues his examination until his father calls him from his thoughts by commenting.

“You're looking strangely happy, Ivar.”

Hiding his smile behind his hand and looking out the window, he responds “What makes my happiness so strange?”

Ragnar sits in front of him. “The fact that you never are.”

Facing his father, he sees the serious expression there. “What’s wrong?

His father closes his eyes and sighs. “I had a vision when I was asleep, Ivar. I spoke to Odin who appeared to me as a young man, and we revisited my past.”

Ivar squints at him questioningly and waits for him to continue. When his father seems to retreat into himself, Ivar grabs his father’s shoulder and gives it a strong shake. “What does it mean, father?”

Getting up from his seat, he slaps both of his hands on Ivar’s shoulders. “Nothing you need to worry about, my son.” He says, suddenly energetic, leaning down to give him a kiss on the forehead.

Ivar doesn’t say it, and anyone would find it difficult to see, but the token of affection calms him.

“Get your dirty beard away from my face, idiot.”

Ragnar laughs openly and makes for the trunk at the end of his bed. In it are some simple cream-colored cotton tunics, 2 wool jerkins, and 3 pairs of pants (each a different size). Smelling his armpits and the collar of his shirt, he winces and turns to see Ivar still looking out the window.

_That’s strange. He looks more pensive than he does cautious._

He admits that Ivar is his most intelligent child. Watching him fight with his brothers is impressive. He always has control of the pace and flow of a battle, rarely is he ever outsmarted. He holds his own well and his upper body strength takes even seasoned warriors by surprise.

He is also Ragnar’s most ruthless and violent son. Raised by Floki to be a true Viking, he developed a love for violence and vengeance, especially against Christians. Ragnar’s disregard for him coupled with Aslaug’s coddling has made him a cautious and mistrustful person, but that does not seem the case now.

He watches Ivar’s eyes track something outside as it moves across the courtyard. He peeks over his son’s head, but whatever it was has disappeared from view.

Ivar rests his chin on his crossed forearms on the windowsill and lets his eyes close. Ragnar, not seeing anything in the courtyard below decides to let it go. He goes to the basin of water to start wiping off the grime and dried sweat that he’s accumulated over days of travel.

Neither of them notices the pair of grey eyes observing them from the window of the opposite tower, nor do they notice the large, strangely quiet raven on her shoulder.

_ GREAT HALL- LATER _

An attendant later calls them to the hall where they were received by the queen for supper. All of Winterfell’s residents seem to be in attendance.

It is a jarring change from the stark and cavernous look of the hall when the Queen received them. Now there are tables and benches along the hall for anyone to simply seat themselves. It is noisy with people speaking over each other to narrate the happenings of the day, gossip, and other topics over warm food and drink. The lighting is warm with all the sconces lit and the hearth blazing merrily at the front of the room.

They are seated near the front of the hall and at the right-most table facing the door. They are given horns of sweet ale, but before Ragnar can drink from his, the maester appears out of nowhere and swipes it out of his hand. His father might be weaker than he thought if he can’t keep the fat maester from grabbing his drink.

“None for you, I’m afraid. You are to be under strict supervision until such a time we are sure you will no longer be collapsing suddenly.”

Ragnar opens his mouth to yell at Maester Wolkan angrily, but the sudden hush of the room causes the words to halt in his throat. He turns to Ivar to ask what is happening but sees that everyone is looking at the large entrance doors to the room. In walks a short young woman in a thick grey leather doublet followed by Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly.

The party makes their way to the head of the room and the eyes of the attendants follow them as they seat themselves along the raised table. The unknown woman seats herself to the right of the throne eerily silently, Wynafryd sits stiffly on her right. The Lady Wylla plops down into her seat and gestures a server for a cup of ale. When Wynafryd sees this, she gives the approaching server a scowl scary enough to have him turn around and fetch some watered-down wine instead. Wylla pouts at her sister but chirps a cheery thank you to the server anyway.

Turning to Ivar to ask him about the young woman, he sees that Ivar is still distractedly looking beyond the open doors of the hall. He swipes the ale from his son’s weak hold and takes a sip, smirking at the disapproving maester seated at the left end of the raised table. When the doors close, he grips the back of Ivar’s shoulder and spins him around to face him, startling him out of his daze.

As he is about to ask him what is wrong with him, the much smaller door adjacent to the hearth opens quietly and Queen Sansa enters. Ivar’s eyes swing toward the sound and, to Ragnar’s surprise, they soften further.

The queen stands at the center of the raised table and raises her small horn of ale in the air. The people in attendance stand and raise theirs as well.

“To a short winter and a long spring. To an independent North.” She toasts.

After the statement is repeated by the attendees, they all simultaneously take a drink and sit back down.

Ivar leans back into his chair, but his gaze doesn’t leave the red-haired queen. He grabs the horn of water that the maester gave Ragnar and brings it up to his mouth in a loose hold. Ragnar would chastise him for his brazen measuring of the queen if he didn’t think Ivar would take it the wrong way.

As Ivar observes the queen speak to the young woman on her right, Ragnar takes the time to observe his son. His relaxed and cocksure posture, the playful look in his eyes, and the small smile he hides with sips of water; these are decidedly bad signs.

_This boy courts danger more than any other Lothbrok._

Ragnar rolls his eyes and takes a deeper drink of ale.

_I think I will need at least 3 caskets of this to survive our time here with Ivar acting like this._

Not looking at the raised table, Ragnar misses Sansa’s signal for them to approach. Ivar doesn’t miss a thing, so he slaps the ale out of his father’s hand to put it down on the table. Before Ragnar can round on him and rebuke him, Ivar says, “We are being summoned to speak to Sansa.”

Raising a brow, Ragnar looks at his son already rolling himself forward “ _Sansa_ , is it?” he whispers under his breath. He can already feel the ache forming in his head.

To his surprise, rather than keeping the table as a barrier between them, the queen has them brought up to sit behind the short woman and her. She twists around in her chair to speak to them face-to-face and she only spares Ivar a short glance as she does so.

_He's bound to offend her if he keeps staring like an idiot._

The shorter woman stands and sits against the table to face them fully. “I’ve been told you need to speak with me about something.”

Ragnar can’t hide the surprise on his face. Ivar finally shifts his gaze to the young captain and is surprised at how much he’s actually spotted her today.

_Maybe not as elusive as Sansa had said._

Though he’s sure his father is surprised at her youth and short stature, he knows well enough to never underestimate someone based on how they look. He turns his gaze back to Arya and she looks slightly offended at his father’s expression, but Sansa only seems amused.

Arya turns to her sister. “Honestly, I'm only 1 year younger than you. Why does no one ever seem surprised at you ruling so young?” but she says it with a tone that speaks less of frustration and more of amusement.

Ragnar schools his expression and addresses the tiny captain. “My apologies, Captain Stark. I simply did not imagine you to-“

“Yes, yes, I know. I'm small and look nothing like my sister. Now, what is it you need to speak to me about?”

“We need to find a way home, beyond what you call the Sea’s Breath.”

Arya stands up straighter, intrigued now. “Interesting...How did you get here?”

“We were on our way to another land when we were blown off course by a terrible storm. We woke on the shores of a place called White Harbor. My longboats and men nowhere to be found. Presumably at the bottom of the sea.”

Arya starts fiddling with the jewel-hilted knife at her side. Looking to her side, she asks “What do you think, Wyn?”

Lady Wynafryd swallows her food and, without looking at Arya, replies. “I think it’s worth a shot.”

Smiling, Arya responds, “I thought so too.” Addressing Ragnar and Wynafryd, “Let’s discuss this over maps, shall we?”

Looking at Arya with a raised brow, her fork already halfway to her mouth, Wynafryd huffs “Right now?”

Smiling widely, Arya replies “No time like the present, isn’t that what you always say Wyn?”

Sighing, Wynafryd pushes away from the table. “Fine. Let’s go.” Looking at Wylla already making enthusiastic rounds about the room, she raises a hand to massage the bridge of her nose.

Arya turns around to her sister who seems to be locked in a staring contest with Ivar, she smirks and teases “Can I leave you alone with this one or do I need to bring him along to protect his virtue?”

Giving her sister a heated glare, Sansa leans back into her seat and straightens her spine. “How I dearly appreciate having you for a sister.” Her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Arya laughs loudly and harshly “You know I’m kidding, Sans.” Wiping a tear from her eye, she gets up, nods to her sister, and starts briskly making her way from the hall. Ragnar follows and once Wynafryd has wrangled her sister, she exits as well.

This leaves Sansa and Ivar nearly alone at the head of the hall.

She gestures for a server to bring a plate of food. “Please,” Then she waves her hand toward the empty space on her right “join me.”

Ivar rolls his chair closer to the table, still facing Sansa, letting his arm rest on the table to his right. “Thank you.”

Seeing his odd position, Sansa offers her assistance. “Do you need help maneuvering the chair? It can’t be comfortable eating like that.”

“No, I find the view from this angle makes the any discomfort worth it.”

Sansa does her best not to blush and gives him her frostiest look. “You’re being very forward, Ser Ivar.”

“And here I thought I had convinced you to just call me Ivar, Sansa.”

Still frosty, Sansa answers “You thought wrong.”

Undeterred, Ivar simply laughs and takes a bit of his food. She looks to her left to avoid his intense gaze and hide her smile at his playfulness behind her hair. She breathes in deeply to regain composure and turns back to face him. Leaning on the armrest further away from him, she refuses to let him see how he affects her.

_Why does he affect her like this?_

She wonders if this is just a return to her youth of foolishness and stupidity. He keeps staring at her and she feels a shiver run down her spine. Why is he doing this? What does he want from her?

 _Still a stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns_ She thinks, wryly, to herself.

“You know, if you really want to address me with a title, you may as well use the correct one.” He jokingly interrupts her thoughts.

Resting head on her open palm and humming thoughtfully, she indulges him by asking “And what title would that be?”

Giving her his most dashing smile, he answers “Well, you could say I am a prince.”

“Oh, so you’re a prince then?” she says sarcastically.

Catching on to her sarcasm, Ivar pretends to be offended “I am shocked you couldn't tell. You call yourself a queen?”

Wanting them to keep speaking, he asks “Well, what did you think I was?”

“Would you like me to be honest?”

“I would hope a queen would be honest, yes.”

“I thought” and here she leans into him and whispers while beckoning him closer with a crook of her finger “I thought you were…”

Ivar tries to suppress the shiver that crawls its way down his spine and into undiscovered territory at the feeling of her breath at his ear and the scent of her hair in his nose.

_Starburst and snow_

“a complete scoundrel.” She says, suddenly straightening and pulling away from him, but not before tugging the queue at the back of his head.

Pleased with herself, she starts giggling into her hand. Ivar pouts as he checks his hair, but he can feel a large smile spread on his face as she continues to laugh into her hand.

Ending their charade, he leans back with his arms crossed. “No one has ever treated me like you do.”

“Like what? A pest?”

“No.” he says, gaze suddenly so intense and so close “like a person.”

Offering him a small and sincere smile, she lays a hand on his arm and gives it a gentle pat.

They turn back to their food to continue eating. The rest of the night passes in silence for the pair, but their awareness for each other doesn’t fade.

When Maester Wolkan’s aide, Wyllem, brings him back to his rooms later that night, his father still isn't back. He lies on his back with his head raised, supported by pillows, and gets lost in his thoughts.

Much later, Ragnar comes back into the room to see Ivar still awake, playing with the queue at the back of his head. Ragnar shakes his head with a smile and goes to blow out the candle before he climbs into his own bed.

“Go to sleep, Ivar.”

_ RAGNAR _

Ragnar’s head hits the pillow and he is asleep.

A second later, he opens his eyes to the night sky of home. He turns to his side and sees the young man sitting beside him looking toward his homestead. Sitting up, he looks there as well, but decides to lie back down.

“Don’t you wish to go inside?”

Ragnar exhales deeply, “What will I see if I do?”

He is answered by silence. Sighing tiredly once more, he grudgingly stands and heads slowly towards his old home. The fire burns low and he can see Lagertha asleep, sitting by a pale Gyda who tosses and turns.

He enters hastily and kneels down next to his daughter. He feels the sting of tears at the sight of his only daughter and knows without a doubt,

_This is the night she dies._

He curses his younger self for his stupid timing. If he had only been home a few months longer, he might have been able to be with his daughter as she breathed her last. He might have even saved her.

She starts shaking and his instincts tell him to hold her even though he knows in his heart that he can't touch her. Surrounding her small hands- _Gods, please they're still so small-_ with his larger ones, he starts singing her favorite lullaby.

_“Drømte mig en drøm i nat_

_om silke og ærlig pæl”_

Gyda’s shaking lessens, so he continues.

_“Bar en dragt så let og glat_

_i solfaldets strålevæld”_

Gyda is completely still now, but still he continues.

_“-nu vågner den klare morgen”_

He cries at the irony. He knows in his gut that she won’t make it until morning, but still he sings as it seems to comfort her.

When he finishes the last line, her eyes blink open and he fears this is where it ends; that he'll have to see his daughter die without ever seeing her father again.

“Father?” she rasps out.

“Gyda!” he exclaims, only for her eyes to roll to the back of her head as she starts convulsing.

Her movements wake Lagertha who takes her into her arms until she stills. Her breath freezes in her lungs and Ragnar is distraught as he watches the light finally fade from her eyes.

His tears stream steadily down his face as he watches Lagertha hold their dead daughter’s body for a while longer, crying silent tears and stroking Gyda’s soft brown hair. They stay like that for some time and he can do nothing but watch on his knees beside the bed, still cradling Gyda’s small hand in both of his.

The young man is suddenly next to him. He wants to turn and throttle him, but he knows there is no point.

“Why? Why show me this if there was nothing I could have done to change it?”

“Because you needed to see it.”

“Please, can’t you save her? She's just a little girl, please.”

“The way things were is the only way it could have been, the only way it was meant to be.”

Growing angry, Ragnar spits a curse under his breath “Damn you,” Standing, he goes to wring the reason for this torture from the cryptic spectre’s neck. “Damn you!”

He leaps forward and lands face-first on a frigid beach.

“Gyda,”

He can immediately tell what scene in his life he’s being made to watch now. He gets up, turns his back from the scene and walks away.

He meets the strange man once he is up the hill. He starts making his way past him, but the young man takes a step to stand in his way.

“I’ve lived this before. I know what happens. I don’t need to see this.”

The young man doesn’t respond but remains standing in his way.

Impossibly, he hears his own voice being carried to him by the wind.

“I’ve been thinking about you; about when you were small.”

_You were still small, far too small, far too young._

“But then, before I knew it, you stopped running here and there and everywhere, and you became still.”

Remembering the last vision he had of her makes him want to die. _Far too small, far too still_

“Dear child” He can hear the anguish he feels reflected in his own voice “Gyda.” He turns now to watch as the grieving father grasp a handful of sand.

_Saying good-bye won’t absolve you. This guilt will follow you forever._

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a pale translucent figure join the form of his younger self on the beach. Curious, Ragnar starts making his way closer and little by little, the figure’s details become clearer to him: the wreath of laurels and baby’s breath that sits on her crown, the pale-yellow dress she wears, and her long braid of dirty blonde hair.

_Gyda_

He starts making his way down the hill faster, but his every step seems to take so much more effort. “Gyda!” he calls, cupping his hands over his lips to help the sound carry further. She doesn’t react. It is as if she can’t hear him.

 _“_ You are not gone because you are always in my heart.” He hears himself say. And he sees her wrap her arms around his younger self in return. He can almost feel the ghost of her arms wrapping over his shoulders now.

“They say that a man must love his sons more, but a man can be jealous of his sons, and his daughter can always be the light in his life.”

He’s so close now, close enough to see her smile brightly and snort at his words. It takes his breath away to see it once again.

“I know very well that you are with the Gods.” He hears his own voice crack with the pain of tears he won’t let fall.

Gyda gets up slowly, her actions slow and graceful, as if she is moving underwater.

“But I will wait here awhile. And if you want to come and talk to me, then come and talk, and I will gently stroke your long and beautiful hair once again with my peasant hands.”

He watches as she leans down to press a kiss to his head.

_More precious than any crown of gold or silver._

Finally close enough, he reaches a hand out to touch her. She turns around before his hand lands and her eyes go wide in recognition.

She embraces him and they leave a mourning Ragnar to cry his tears in peace. His relief at being able to actually hold her is overwhelming.

She cries quietly in his arms as he apologizes repeatedly for not being there for her.

“It’s alright, father.”

Sweet, gentle Gyda, still too young to understand the gravity of his failings as a father. He simply holds her, brushing her hair back to plant a tender kiss on her forehead.

“I’m sorry, Gyda.”

“It’s so nice to see you, father. I told them you’d come home.”

Close to tears once more, he presses his cheek to the crown of her head. “I’m here, Gyda. I'm home.”

He watches the sun peek over the horizon, and with one last lungful of the familiar cold air of home, with his daughter in his arms, he wakes.

_ WINTERFELL _

Ivar wakes. He turns to his father, but sees that Ragnar is still asleep. He’s hoping he can finally take a bath today. Pushing himself into his chair, he decides that the need is urgent enough to ask for help or at least directions to the baths.

To his surprise, right outside the door is a familiar chain-wearing maester. Hoping that whatever he has to discuss with him will be brief, Ivar greets him. “Maester Wolkan.”

Chirpily, the maester greets him back “Good morning, Ser Ivar.” Taking position behind Ivar, he starts pushing them in the direction of the maester’s room where he was first brought. “I was hoping I could write about your condition. See, normally children with this affliction die early. The oldest recorded case having lived to 10 years old before succumbing to bone fever.”

Ivar decides to be nice to the old man seeing as he would like to do what he can in the search for a cure and agrees. “It would be no trouble at all, Maester.”

“Perfect! This shouldn’t take too long. I only need to ask you a few questions and do a few more examinations.”

And that’s how Ivar spends his entire morning; answering questions, getting poked and prodded by various instruments, and getting his blood extracted using what must be a special torture device. After a quick lunch in the Great Hall, he decides to go in search of a bath.

Passing by the courtyard, he is stopped by Ser Jonnel once again. He can feel his temper rise at the mere sight of the man.

“Ser Ivar!” He calls out, in a much friendlier tone.

Ivar doesn’t stop for him, pretending not to have heard. Ser Jonnel jogs after him and stands in his way. “Wait! I was hoping you could show my fellow knights your skills in the yard.”

Watching him warily, Ivar rejects the request gently “I am not going to perform for you like some bard. Don’t waste my time.”—perhaps not that gently.

As he moves past Ser Jonnel, a hand grasps one of the handles of his chair. “If you don’t want to lose the hand, I’d suggest you let me go.”

Ignoring his warning, Ser Jonnel taunts him “Too afraid to get back in the ring with me? I should have known it was a fluke.” Letting go of the chair’s handle he continues.

“The queen must have been mistaken to call you a ser. No true knight would turn down an offer of a fair match. You could only beat me if I were already tired from a full day of work while you’ve been off your feet for—well for your whole life.”

Ivar grits his teeth and clenches his fists. The blades hidden in his arm bracers are so close to flying into the man’s skull.

He hears the sound of a knife flying. He checks for the weight of his blades, they're still there. Twisting in his chair, he sees that the knife has embedded itself into the wall right in front of Ser Jonnel. Turning again, he sees Arya striding her way up to them from the direction of the smithy.

“That’s enough, Ser Jonnel.” She rips her knife from the wall and flips it around menacingly. Using the blade to issue a shoo-ing motion at the knight, “I suggest you leave. Now.”

“Captain Stark” He bows shallowly and exits back towards his fellow knights at the training yard.

“One thing I’ve learned from all my travels, is that there are idiots everywhere you go.” She says while Ser Jonnel is still within hearing distance. He sees the knight tense and he reads the way he wants a fight in the line of his shoulders. Better sense wins out and he continues on his way.

Once Ser Jonnel is out of sight, he jokingly comments “And here I was thinking you hadn’t really been anywhere on your boat yet, Captain.”

“You cheeky shit.” She walks in front of him. Smiling, she rolls her eyes at him. “No wonder.”

He looks at her in question “No wonder what?”

She just smirks at him and attempts to change the subject. “So, where to? I assure you, I’m a far better navigator here than at sea.”

Not distracted by her new question, Ivar repeats himself “No wonder what?”

“And stubborn too.” She takes position behind his chair and continues under her breath “Then again, she’s never really had the best taste.”

Understanding dawns on Ivar’s face and he stops asking. Now desperately wanting to change the subject, he blurts out. “I need a bath.”

Arya chuckles behind him and starts pushing him through the halls. “Yes, you do. She’s too polite to say anything to your face, but I’m not.”

Very embarrassed now, Ivar drops his face into his hands. “Can we please not talk about this? About her?”

“Brave enough to make googly eyes at her, but too ashamed to talk about her?” She asks, her tone inscrutable.

He doesn’t know how to answer that, so he stays silent and places his hands under his legs. It’s the wrong course of action, he realizes, when she suddenly rounds on him and puts a knife at his throat faster than he can open his mouth to apologize or explain.

“Listen here and listen well.” She whispers lowly. “My sister is not a game. She’s challenging, yes, but that doesn’t make her just another challenge.” She says, keeping the knife a hairsbreadth from his bounding carotid.

“If you have no plans of following through, you need to back. off.” She punctuates the last words by pushing the knife closer to his neck. “What’s your game?”

Getting irritated with her, he shoves the offending knife to the side only for her to raise another knife to his throat with her other hand. “Wrong answer.” She says, menacingly.

“Try again.”

Ivar is impressed, but also further angered. “It’s not any of your business.”

Her expression turns dark. “Wrong again. Last chance to give me an honest answer before I make you Ivar, the Faceless.”

Seeing no other way to get out of this, he begrudgingly admits “I-I am very much interested in your sister.”

Raising her knife to his chin, she gives him a look to continue.

“I like her, okay? Nothing has ever intrigued or infuriated or calmed me the way she does.”

She hums contemplatively, and, to Ivar’s relief, puts the knives away. “Fine.”

Ivar relaxes. They remain silent as she pushes him onward until they reach a damp wooden door with steam coming from underneath it. “This is the door to the public baths. You should find everything you need in there and judging by the time of day, you should have your privacy.”

He opens his mouth to thank her, but she continues.

“I will keep out of it, but you should keep in mind that you're here to find a way back to your home; to leave this place behind. Make sure that when you leave, you don't make her any promises you can’t keep. And when we get on that boat, you better not bring her heart onboard with you.”

Stepping away from him and giving him her back, she goes on. “My sister is strong, but I don't want to see her get hurt. She's a romantic, always has been, and I can tell that you interest her, but she's been through enough… Don't make her love you, if you only plan on leaving her behind.”

Ivar lets her have the last word and watches as she disappears from view.

He enters the bath silently and is thankful for the solitude. He has a lot to think about.

_ WINTERFELL-LIBRARY _

Later in the day, Ivar sits at the long desk in the middle of the room. The walls are lined with books and there are several large unfilled bookshelves around him. What looks like a strange mismatched chessboard sits underneath the windowsill. It seems dusty from disuse.

He scans the book he has open in front of him. Trying to figure out the characters he doesn’t recognize by guessing at words with the characters he does recognize. His mind is split between this endeavor and Arya’s earlier questions.

After a few minutes of fruitless trying, he leans away from the book to take his head in his hands. Rubbing his temples, he stews over Arya’s words some more.

That’s when Sansa and Maester Wolkan enter, still discussing grain stores and the glass garden’s renovations. Seeing that Ivar is having some sort of moment, Sansa raises a hand to signal Maester Wolkan to stop.

Pointing towards Ivar, she gives the maester a look that says _“We’ll continue this conversation later. Talk to him.”_

Completely misreading the look, Maester Wolkan gives her a smile and an overdramatic wink. He then announces, “Good day, my Queen. I will take my leave now.”

This catches Ivar’s attention, and he looks up from his hands to see the maester bow to both of them and practically flounce out of the library.

Sansa shakes her head as she watches the joyous maester’s retreating figure. Ivar watches this all from his seat at the table. Before she can leave as well, he invites her to sit with him. “Please, don’t just stand there, come in.”

Regaining her composure, Sansa sits tensely in the seat across him. Noticing the particular book open in front of him, she comments. “I am quite partial to those stories as well.”

Not hearing a reply, but unwilling to look at his face, she continues “I used to love stories like that as a child, so romantic and fanciful. What do you think of it?”

Feeling brave enough now, she looks up at him only to meet his intense gaze yet again.

_Why is he always looking at me like that?_

Getting flustered by the attention and frustrated with the lack of reply, Sansa makes to stand and leave when Ivar suddenly speaks.

“I wish I could think something about it.”

“What do you mean?” Tilting her head to the side, she asks, concerned.

Looking down at the book, he shyly admits “I can’t actually read it.” Pushing the book toward her, he points at some of the letters “These are familiar to me, but the others...” he gestures at the rest of the page disappointedly.

“Oh... Well, I could teach you.”

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

“It’s no trouble, really.” Admittedly whispering to him, “I would rather not do the numbers for the day yet anyway.”

He gives her a grateful smile, and she transfers to the seat beside him, pointing at one of the words. “Shall we begin?”

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys picked up what I did at the end there with him not actually answering his question, but also he starts learning this new written language.
> 
> What can i say? I've gone full clown.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve got the time stone don’t @ me

_ RAGNAR _

Ragnar feels like a faded version of himself. Every night is filled with visions that seem meant to torment him. He wakes exhausted and wanders the halls like a ghost.

Ivar is always off on his own, and Ragnar knows he can take care of himself. With their safety relatively assured for the time being, he explores.

They have been here nearly a fortnight now, and all Ragnar wants is to be at sea again, on his way home. After seeing all there is to see in Winterfell, he is left with nothing to do but wait, and wait, and wait.

Sometimes, the Captain will invite him to help her finish her spherical map, using his input and descriptions to complete the puzzle that she calls a “globe”.

“I have a theory, you see.” She explains “That there might not be an end to our world; that it might just go around and around and around.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“A dream... from a raven.” She answers with a cryptic smile. “It doesn’t matter what gave me the idea anyway. I’ll need to prove it, and by that, I mean I’m going to be the first person to see it all.”

“I don’t think there’s ever been a captain like you, Arya Stark.”

She smirks and answers him confidently. “That’s because I needed to be first.”

But spending too much time in her company is its own sweet poison. He looks at her and sees the image of what Gyda could have been had she been allowed to live.

And so, Ragnar sleeps. He dreams. He wakes. And with every repetition, he can feel a piece of himself get chipped away.

He watches upon the battlements as the day fades into night. He looks up at the stars and wonders how they can look so different from the skies of home.

When Ragnar notices his breath fog in the air in front of him, he takes it as a sign to leave. At dinner in the Great Hall, he sits on his own in the seat he was shown to originally. Some people try to invite him into their conversations, but Ragnar simply doesn’t have the energy for it.

He doubts he even has the energy to speak to Ivar.

Ivar, who loiters by the queen like a particularly determined fly. It’s both adorable and ridiculous.

_I’m his father. I’m allowed to tease him about his pursuits._

Ragnar sighs with a small smile. He’d never actually say anything about Ivar’s growing connection with the young woman. He’s just pleased to see his youngest son finally learning to pay attention to the fairer sex. He’ll never be as impressive looking as Bjorn or Ubbe; nor classically handsome like Hvitserk, but Ivar has his own charms and it’s nice to see him realize that about himself.

He makes a note to himself to convince Sigurd to change that stupid haircut when he gets home.

**_If_ ** _. **If** he gets home._

Melancholy takes ahold of him once again and he leaves the hall behind without a backward glance. He doesn’t want to die in this strange place but being here seems to suck the life out of him. Arya’s map only seems to get more and more complicated, making him wonder how in Hel they even washed up in this land.

When he rests his head on the pillow, part of him is excited for the torment to come because it at least lets him go back home.

Ragnar sleeps. He wakes.

It is night once again. The past few dreams have consistently been showing him the lives of Lagertha and Bjorn after they left Kattegat. When they lived in Hedeby, under the fist of an angry abusive drunk.

_I should’ve made them stay._

If Sigvard wasn’t already dead, the pure malice and rage Ragnar feels would have been enough to make his heart stop from across the seas.

He enters the brightly lit hall. Bjorn is not seated at the end of the hall, so he assumes this is after he had asked them to help him retake Kattegat from Jarl Borg. Bjorn had decided to stay with him after that.

His feet float him past walls and he stops behind Lagertha. He places a hand on her shoulder to give her support and comfort.

_Or is he simply comforting himself?_

Her head turns to the side to speak with someone and he sees her bruised and swelling face.

He can’t restrain the pitiful whimper that bursts from him.

_Curse you to the pits of Hel, Sigvard! May Nidhogg devour you slowly, you rat bastard!_

Ragnar wraps his spectral hands around Sigvard’s neck and tries to strangle him, but nothing he ever does here makes a difference. It never has.

_Lagertha left that battle basically unscathed you fucking animal. What did you do?!_

Turning to Lagertha, who is still obviously in pain from a recent beating, Sigavrd asks “What’s the matter with you now? You don’t talk. You don’t smile.”

Sigvard caresses her face then grips the back of her neck to bring her face closer to his mouth “My love, you must do better than this.”

“You know something?” He continues to the people seated at his table “My wife has the most beautiful breasts.”

Standing, more drivel leaves his mouth and the hall silences. He wraps both hands around Lagertha’s neck and grips the sides of her bodice.

“Let me show you.”

Ragnar is a storm of fists as he tries and fails to land a blow, any blow to save Lagertha from this humiliation.

As he makes to rip her gown, Lagertha suddenly grabs the knife at the table and stabs him straight in the eye. Sigvard falls to the floor in agony, wailing like a stuck pig.

Ragnar’s temporary joy at this development is quashed when the man seated next to Lagertha stands, unsheathes his sword and advances, but he only swings to decapitate the wailing Sigvard.

Taking one last look at the newly freed Lagertha, he wakes.

_ WINTERFELL-GREAT HALL _

Ivar is excited to say the least. This afternoon at lunch, the smithy presented him with his new leg braces, and they are much, much better than his last set. He barely feels any pain in these. Though his walk could use some work, he barely even needs the crutch to go along with it.

He now regrets ever even thinking about killing Gendry Baratheon.

“You’re a genius!” Ivar exclaims.

Blushing, Gendry scratches the back of his neck nervously “I didn’t even do that much.”

“Don’t say that to him.” Arya’s voice comes from his right. Doing a double take, Ivar recalls that she wasn’t even in the hall a moment ago.

“He’ll get a bigger head than he already has.”

Pouting, Gendry crosses his arms “Whatever milady commands.”

Arya growls and pounces on the big man. “Take it back.”

Gendry, now on the ground and protecting his head from her assault shouts out, “Or what, milady?”

Continuing her assault, he simply laughs of her halfhearted blows. They roll around the floor like a couple of unruly children.

Taking a look at the unsurprised and unbothered faces in the hall, Ivar surmises that this is a regular occurrence and decides to take his leave. He stands and gets halfway out of the hall when he has an idea.

He turns around and pushes his chair out of the hall with him. Going up to the library, he parks the chair by the cyvasse table and takes his usual seat.

After their last lesson on reading and writing, Ivar tried to think of another reason for her to spend time with him. First noticing the abandoned table by the window, he pointed at it and asked her what it was.

And that’s how they started playing cyvasse. As a tactician, Ivar finds enjoyment in games like these. He believes that the mind is a far better weapon than the sword.

Back home, the only person he could really play against was his mother. No one else was interested in pursuits outside of the norm, and games like these were one of the only ways that he could pass the time. He remembers afternoons spent moving pieces across a chess board.

The game he plays with Sansa is very different.

They have been playing this match for 3 days straight, and neither of them has lost any pieces. When he readjusts something, she does as well. When he sets up another trap, she adjusts the piece he had actually planned to capture. Neither of them has tried any forward moves.

Ivar prefers to lay traps than to directly confront an enemy. Life as a cripple has taught him that though he can be as skilled as his brothers, better even, he will never be able to truly stand beside them on the frontlines.

Sansa’s strategy is very defensive. He’s sure she has her own traps for him, but what they are exactly, he doesn’t know. Neither of them has made a move, but Ivar knows he sits on the edge of his patience. Between the two of them, he knows he will be the first to break. The first to make a move. The only question is where?

Ivar’s musings are interrupted by Sansa’s entrance. Adjusting himself slightly on his chair to make it seem like he still needs it, he waits for her to take a seat at the board.

Once she is seated, she places her chin in one of her hands and considers the board. He pushes one of his spearmen toward her formation of spearmen on the left. She immediately adjusts her elephant piece to the right.

While she re-examines the board, he takes his time to examine her.

“Why do you always do that?” She asks, gaze still resting on his solitary crossbowman piece.

“Do what?” He replies which causes her to look up at him, her gaze inscrutable.

“Watch me.” She mutters, her face still cradled in the palm of her hand.

He only smiles in reply. In response, one of her eyebrows quirks upward.

Pushing away from the board, he says. “I’m getting a bit bored of this game, aren’t you?”

Straightening her spine, her shoulders become tense. She looks at him from beneath her lashes with a challenge in her gaze. “What do you suggest we do then?”

Ivar tries his hardest not to blush and splutter like an idiot

_Odin Almighty, give me strength_

“I-I was hoping we could take a walk.”

“Oh?” Leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest, she continues “Where?”

The tension getting to him, he blurts out the first thing that comes to his head. “OUTSIDE!”

At his nervous squeaking exclamation, Sansa can’t help but laugh.

Smiling now—how can he not smile when she laughs at him so beautifully, Ivar shakes his head at his own behavior and lets a few chuckles escape. “Let me try that again.”

Straightening, but still giggling, Sansa waves her hand for him to proceed.

Clearing his throat first, Ivar asks “Would you like to take a walk with me, Sansa?”

With a twinkle in her eye, Sansa stands “I’d love to, Ivar.” Walking behind him, she grabs the crutch he forgot he left behind him and puts it across his lap. “Come along now.”

_So much for that surprise. Gods, why do I always end up acting like a bumbling twit around her?_

His charade busted, he stands from the chair and stands right in front of her.

Sansa admits she’s a bit impressed by his height. She is by no means short, even Jon was a bit shorter than her. She loves being this tall as it affords her some regality, not to mention all the ways she gets to poke fun at Arya for being so much shorter despite their one year difference, but it’s hard to find anyone she can look at romantically when being the taller one in the relationship brings back memories of her short marriage to Tyrion.

He stands just a little taller than her when he slouches, putting them at eye level. He stands close enough for their noses to almost touch.

Shakily taking a step forward, he loses his balance and falls against her. She barely manages to catch him, but her arms buckle backwards and he hears her grunt in exertion.

He struggles to get his feet set straight under him by putting his weight on his crutch but he does manage. Once they are all straightened up, she brushes her skirts off and straightens the leather armor type bodice of her dress.

He breathes deeply to control the blush on his face and decides to pretend it never happened.

“Shall we?”

Sansa nods in response. She can't seem to look him in the eye.

They exit the library together and Ivar appreciates that she doesn't slow down for him. They walk side-by-side and slow when they reach the hall of tapestries.

“I was wondering if you could tell me about some of these.”

Sansa doesn’t look at him, but she does reply “Which ones did you have in mind?”

“Whichever ones you’d like to tell me about.”

“That helps narrow it down.” She says sarcastically. “What do you really want, Ivar?”

Sansa stops in the middle of the corridor but Ivar walks on. Frustrated, Sansa is ready to make her excuses and retreat to the safety of her solar when he answers.

“I want to know everything, everything about this place, these people, you.”

“Why?”

“I think you know.”

_He always says things like that, but words are wind, and I can’t let myself forget that he’s leaving as soon as Arya can sail no matter how sweet he seems._

Sansa wishes she could feel angry about his want to leave, but she—more than most—can understand the longing for home.

Resolved not to let him affect her any longer, she changes tactics.

_Porcelain to ivory to steel_

“If you want a body to warm your bed while you’re here, I'd suggest looking elsewhere.”

He twists his body to the side to face her and looks at the cold expression on her face. “I can’t.” He simply replies

An odd mixture of hurt, disappointment, and fury boils in her chest. “I am not interested in being anyone’s plaything or conquest, so if that's what you’d hoped to gain through this charming act of yours, you can drop it.”

“I can’t.” Ivar repeats.

“Why not?”

Ivar turns to her fully looking exasperated. “You really think I can look at anything else when you’re around? That there's an act I have to drop?” The thought nearly makes him chuckle.

Sansa closes her eyes and breathes in deeply through her nose for a few moments. Not hearing him approach, she is surprised by the scent that suddenly fills her nose.

_Seaspray and mist. What an odd combination._

He stands right in front of her now and tilts her chin up with a crooked index finger.

_Open your eyes. Look at me._

He wants to soothe her blatant suspicion, but before he can do so, she commands.

“Stop it.”

“I can’t.”

Her eyes open and he sees the cold fury in her icy blue irises, so he continues. “I can’t—I can’t look anywhere else and I wouldn’t want to, not when you’re in front of me.”

Her eyes sharpen and he can already hear the retort that wants to fly from her mouth, so he continues. “I say these things because I mean them, because I want you to be as aware of me as I am of you.”

Pushing his hand away from her face, Sansa takes a step back from his intoxicating proximity. “I said stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Ivar, I am not interested in something that won’t last.”

“Who’s to say it won’t last?”

“Ivar, stop.”

Losing his temper a bit now, he yells “No!”

Instead of flinching back like he expects her to, she straightens further and prepares to walk away from him.

“What are you so afraid of, hm?! That I’ll leave you behind as soon as I can set sail?!”

She starts walking away from him now, but he grabs her arm to prevent her from taking another step. When he sees the way she flinches at the brusque hold, he swiftly lets go.

“I’m sorry, but I thought I’d made myself clear.”

She refuses to turn towards him, so he walks around to face her.

“I don’t plan on going anywhere, not unless you come with me.”

Rolling her eyes, Sansa scoffs. “I am the Queen in the North. My place is here.”

Looking deep into her eyes, he hopes his sincerity cannot be mistaken when he says “Then mine is too.”

Her facade cracks now, and he sees the glistening of tears in her eyes. “I know what it’s like to be far from your home and to cling to any kindness you can find. You may think you like me enough to stay, but when the opportunity arises, I have no doubt that”

“What does that have to do with this? Sansa, I don’t think you are at all understanding me properly, so I will say it more clearly.”

Cradling her face in the palm of his hands, he lets his crutch fall to the floor. “I want to stay here, with you.”

Her gaze is so unbearable tender as she raises her trembling hands to the sides of his face and closes the distance between them.

_ RAGNAR _

Ragnar sleeps. He wakes on a hillside, staring into a cloudy grey sky.

Ragnar’s exhaustion follows him into his dreams. The strange young man will make sure he sees whatever he needs to see, for now he just lies back and rests.

_These dreams are so potent_

Ragnar could lay like this awhile and fall back asleep, but his trek into slumber is interrupted by the voice of his son, Ubbe, as he last heard him.

“You think our father never knew.”

“It’s possible.” He hears Bjorn reply. “In those early days, it wasn’t easy to navigate the sea.”

“He knew. He had to.” Hvitserk replies while wiping his knife on an animal skin.

Ragnar knows what they are talking about now; his disappearance, his failure, his lies.

He hears Sigurd add. “If he did, he should have told the people. Everyone lost relatives, fathers and uncles, sons and daughters. They would have demanded revenge.”

Sigurd didn’t understand then, and he doesn’t understand now. He might not have been as distant with Sigurd, not when you compare it to his disdain for Ivar, but he feels as if Sigurd is the son who likes him least.

“That is why he didn’t tell them.” He hears Ivar swiftly reply. Always quick to defend him even though he doesn’t deserve it, not after the way Ragnar treated him as a child.

After a short and sullen silence, Ubbe asks. “What do you mean?”

“It was a waste of time.” He is reminded once again of Ivar’s ruthlessness. “They were dead.”

The completely unaffected way he says it sends chills down his spine from where he lies.

Ivar continues. “Ragnar wanted to sail to Paris. He wanted to be famous. Isn’t that more important, hm?”

“You could say that.” Bjorn answers.

He can hear the temper rising in Ivar’s voice now. The voice of someone who wants to pick a fight.

“”I can say that”? What does that mean?”

Hvitserk cuts in, trying to de-escalate the situation. “Here’s what it means, at least to me. Our father abandoned us we were just kids when he ran off only the gods know if he’s still alive. And now, we hear he kept this big secret from everyone, but he was not truthful or honest...”

Sigurd, Ragnar is coming to understand, doesn’t like him much “This makes me feel sick. How could our father not tell them of what had happened?”

Bjorn cuts him off. “Maybe if he told them, they would have killed him.”

The silence is tense when Ubbe speaks. “If it’s true—if it’s true that our father lied to his people and abandoned them, then I hope he never comes back.” His tone is disappointed.

“He betrayed our name. If he ever came back, I would kill him.”

The venom in Hvitserk’s words takes Ragnar by surprise. Another son he’s lost.

“Me too.”

Sigurd’s agreement, less so.

“Screw you—all of you—he never did anything wrong. He is our father and that is the end of it.” Ragnar is touched by the defensiveness in Ivar’s voice and it serves as a reminder of how much he doesn’t deserve it coming from the son he abandoned most.

“You all sound like a bunch of _Christians._ ” He spits out the word

Ubbe, trying to calm everyone responds “I love our father as much as you do-“

Ivar cuts him off “Who said I loved him, Ubbe? I said I admired him. He’s viking, and you are soft.”

Ubbe, unwilling to take the insult sitting down, counters. “I am not soft. None of us are soft, but we want to understand what our father did and what he was.”

Ubbe sits down in front of Ivar in order to look him in the eye. “As his son, his fame does not interest me. What he used his power for, now that would interest me.”

Ivar shakes his head and looks away.

Hvitserk speaks. “By now, my brothers, there will be a lot of anger in Kattegat. Now they know the truth, our father betrayed a whole generation of people.”

Ragnar may be imagining it, but he thinks he hears a note of disappointment in Hvitserk’s voice. All he’s ever done for his sons is disappoint them it seems.

Maybe he should have never come back. He wouldn’t have been there to bring Ivar on this foolhardy venture.

_I’m so sorry, Ivar._

Ivar was the son he hadn’t offered to bring, yet Ivar is the one who came. His self-deprecating musings are interrupted by Sigurd.

“So if he came back-“

Bjorn must be getting tired of this topic because he swiftly cuts in to end this conversation.

“I don’t think he is ever going to come back. I think what happened in Paris finally broke him.”

Bjorn knows him almost too well. Until now, he’s not sure if something inside him broke after Paris. Something that can’t be fixed.

“You can all say whatever you want, but he was a human. People started to talk as if he was a god. He was not a god. He was a man. A man with many dreams and many failures.”

Ragnar thinks that Bjorn got that portion wrong. Ragnar has no dreams now, only a purpose. To try and make up for his many failings, as a king, as a husband, as a father. These visions have shown him that.

“I’ve learned that in the years since he went away. If I were him, I wouldn’t come back.”

Ragnar shakes his head. Bjorn is too good a man. He will never understand the darkness that has plagued Ragnar since he left. A dark cloud of shame birthed from his pride. Rollo’s betrayal.

Bjorn continues. “Despite all his failings, he’s still the greatest man in the world to me.”

_I don’t deserve it, Bjorn. This admiration, your respect, not after everything._

“Do you understand now?” He hears from his direct left. He turns to look at the young man who sits behind him.

Ragnar scoffs. “I understand that I failed everyone I ever knew. How much longer do we have to do this?”

The young man hums contemplatively next to him. “Still so far to go, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“Can I stay here a while longer?” Ragnar can still hear his sons speaking from a short distance away. The grass is soft beneath him, and the clouds move lazily across the grey sky.

The young man doesn’t answer, so Ragnar turns to him to see if he is still there. He is.

_This may be the strangest of Odin’s forms._

The young man looks him right in the eye and smirks, as if hearing his thoughts.

_Perhaps he can. What does it matter?_

Ragnar spends the entire afternoon contemplating his visions on the side of that hill. Thankful that he hasn’t been forced to wake yet. When the sky darkens and he gently drifts to sleep, it is with a small content smile on his face.

Ragnar wakes.

_ WINTERFELL- GLASS GARDENS _

Ivar and Sansa’s walks turn into a regular occurrence. They alternate days across the cyvasse board with walks to various areas of the castle and Wintertown. He gets to see her in her element as queen, and she introduces him to her people as Prince Ivar of Kattegat.

On their more secluded walks, they spend time trading stories of their childhood and families. He tells her all he can of Kattegat; what it was like growing up as a cripple, being raised by Floki in the way of the Viking, and of his mother’s well-meant but smothering concern.

In return she tells him of her childhood here; of summer days playing in the Godswood with her family, and eventually of her mistreatment in the south.

She’s lived past all of her tormentors, but he’d still like to rip their heads from their shoulders. Their deaths are far too merciful for his tastes, and when he tells her that Sansa only rolls her eyes at him.

“Can I at least take revenge on the dwarf?” He asks seriously.

Sansa smiles and quirks an eyebrow up. “For what?”

“For taking advantage of a scared child. For marrying you. For even looking at you.”

His protectiveness is endearing, but Sansa is done letting others fight her battles for her, so she tells him exactly that.

“Never **for** you, Sansa, but **with** you.”

It touches her. She kisses him for that one.

Today, they find themselves in the glass gardens. It’s a sprawling area completely encased in glass. It’s as if winter’s touch never reaches this place.

It’s teeming with gardeners, but after the initial greetings, no one pays them any mind. They walk leisurely between rows of lemon trees, and other strange fruits that neither of them knows the name of.

They take their time passing under low-hanging branches and simply being in one another’s presence. Ivar is proficient at walking now, so much so that he’s decided to leave it leaning on one of the stone benches outside.

Just as he thinks about attempting to run or even jog, he trips over an exposed root he hadn’t seen and falls neatly on his side.

Sansa tries to catch him, but he’s far too heavy for her, and it happens far too quickly. He remembers first trying to walk in Kattegat and falling just like this. People stared at him like a particularly entertaining spectacle. Some of them laughed when he fell, only silenced by the looks his brother gave them.

Here, the gardeners simply go about their day, picking and planting produce. The only one whose opinion matters to him isn’t laughing. No, she’s trying to lift him up on her own. It’s cute but futile. Her efforts are appreciated, nonetheless.

Deciding to mess with her some more, he lets his entire body relax into deadweight and pulls her down with him.

Surprised at her new position on the ground, Sansa blinks at him before adjusting to sit on her knees. She places his head in her lap and leans against the tree that tripped him up.

None of the gardeners will comment or speak of this. They are happy that she is happy. After everything she’s had to endure, she deserves it.

Ivar simply appreciates her from his vantage point; less severe and intense, soft almost, unguarded. She picks leaves and bits of grass from his hair, chuckling at his antics.

“I can see it so clearly, you know.” She whispers with a faraway look in her eyes.

Conspiratorially, he whispers back “What?”

“A future... with you.” And he sees her expression shutter, so he sits up as she turns her face away from him.

Ivar brushes one of her cheeks with the back of his hand. “What’s so wrong with that?”

She presses her face into his hand and grasps it with one of her own. “You make me hope for a life outside of ruling, outside of my responsibilities, outside of my past and how it’s come to define me. You make me dream as I used to.”

Smiling, Ivar presses their foreheads together and looks at her from under his lashes. “That’s not such a bad thing.”

Shaking her head and shutting her eyes, Sansa continues. “But don’t you see? Everyone I love leaves, whether by death or some other means. Being loved by me is a curse.”

Ivar smiles so much wider. He can hear the blood rush in his ears, and though she’s on the brink of tears, he can’t help himself. He laughs, he’s so happy.

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.” He tuts causing her to open her eyes. They glisten with tears, and he hates the sight of it.

“You’ve done it now, you know. You’re not going to be able to get rid of me now.”

Sansa looks confused, so he resumes. “I love you, too.”

Closing his eyes and raising his other hand to her face, he doesn’t see the expression on her face, but he does hear her sharp intake of breath at his previous words.

Pushing their heads together more strongly, he swears. “I don’t care, Sansa. I don’t care if I die, not when I know you love me. To be loved by you, that is a curse I am more than willing to bear.” He ends his proclamation with a tender kiss to her forehead

She chuckles wetly, so he looks back into her eyes. “Gods, you’re such an idiot.”

Sansa can’t believe she’s fallen so quickly for this foreign “prince”, but then she thinks of his bright blue eyes and the charming dimple on his chin when he smiles, his mind, his words and the way he makes her feel by just being around her.

_Gods, how could I not? How could I have lived my life without knowing you, without loving you?_

Her heart is so light and full to bursting. She’s just so happy. She takes his face into her hands and pulls him in for a kiss. A simple meeting of smiling lips, but the meaning it conveys is profound.

When it’s over, Ivar grins and pulls his hands behind him to lean on them. “That’s not the right thing to say after someone professes their love to you. You got the action right though, so I guess I can’t be too mad.”

Sansa raises both her brows to look shocked. “Oh? And you have plenty of experience in the subject of love confessions, do you?”

“No, but I did it right when you said it, didn’t I?”

Sansa shakes her head wryly, but she can’t wipe the smile from her face. “That you did.”

Ivar lies back onto her lap. “So this future you envision, what does it look like?”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing.” Ivar insists. “I just want to know what it is I need to do to get you your dream.”

“Just be with me. Everything else can follow.”

“And love you back.”

“Well, of course that too.”

The pair can’t stop smiling at each other and though they don’t say it again, the love shines clear through their eyes.

_I love you._

_I love you, too._

_ RAGNAR _

Ragnar sleeps.

Ragnar wakes standing in the mud. He looks around him and sees the wooden homes of Kattegat looking exactly as he last saw them. He is surrounded by troops of men bearing shields painted with Lagertha’s sigil.

Lagertha herself stands in the middle of the crowd. Hair in her signature battle braids and flanked by her shield maidens.

_She took Kattegat._

Aslaug approaches her in her finest cloak and diadem, holding the Sword of Kings in her open palms.

Ragnar can feel his palms start to sweat as he watches their tense confrontation.

Aslaug looks toward the Seer and scoffs. Understanding his words to her now. A woman will take the throne of Kattegat.

_But not her._

Aslaug breaks the silence first. “How strange, Lagertha, that you should play the usurper. One woman against another doesn’t quite fit with your reputation.”

Ragnar can’t help but be proud of her bravery. He has always known Aslaug as a fierce woman. Not in the way of Lagertha, but there are more ways than one to be strong. He sees that now.

Sheathing her sword, Lagertha counters. “I was never the usurper, always the usurped.”

Aslaug looks ready to disagree, but Lagertha continues. “You took my husband, my world, and my happiness.”

“The fact that you’re a woman” She shrugs her shoulders “is neither here, nor there.”

Finally able to speak, Aslaug replies. “I didn’t take your husband. He chose to be with me.”

Ragnar knows Lagertha, and he knows that is the exact wrong thing to say to her in reply.

“He didn’t choose. You’re a witch. You bewitched him.”

Getting tired with this line of conversation, Aslaug concedes. “If that’s what you want to believe, it’s up to you. I don’t disagree women can have power over men, but it’s not always magical is it Lagertha?”

Ragnar prays to any gods that will listen to put a stop to this antagonization.

_The fault is mine! Punish me!_

Aslaug resumes after a glance towards the Seer. “In any case, Ragnar is dead.” She announces to the people.

Lagertha doesn’t flinch, but he can hear how shaken she is in the tone of her voice. “You don’t know that.”

Nodding her head surely, Aslaug simply replies. “I dreamed it.”

Speaking loud enough to be heard by the crowd, she continues. “I warned him about his journey.”

_If only I’d listened, this wouldn’t be happening now._

“In my dream, his boat was sunk in a storm. Ragnar died.” Softly and to Lagertha only she confesses “so did my son, Ivar.” Here, her face falters from its calm facade momentarily.

After her announcement, Aslaug’s face is the picture of calm, but Lagertha’s is a vision of self-control. He sees the tears welling in her eyes now, the muscles of her mouth trying to pull them into sobs, and the small crease between her brows that forms whenever she wants to act an unshakeable leader.

“But you don’t **know** that.”

Mercifully, Aslaug doesn’t push her further. “No, I don’t know that for sure.” She offers a small nod in concession.

“It was just a dream.”

“And I’ve dreamt of taking back my home. I’ve dreamt it for a long time.” The tears that glisten in Lagertha’s eyes are visible for all to see now. “But if I have to fight for it, then I will.”

Aslaug, ever the pragmatic, simply smiles at the offer. “Don’t worry. I could never fight you Lagertha. I am not my mother, nor yet my father. I would never win.”

Aslaug tosses the Sword of Kings at Lagertha’s feet and holds her hands in front of her innocently. The crowd gasps.

_As if they are surprised, have they ever known Aslaug to be a fool?_

She continues speaking to Lagertha and he almost fails to hear it from the crowd’s disquiet. “But still I have fulfilled my destiny. The Gods foretold Ragnar would have many sons, and I have given him those sons.”

He sees how hurt Lagertha is by this statement, but what follows next can only anger her.

“I am as much a part of his saga, Lagertha as you are,” She speaks loudly again to be heard above the din of noise the crowd makes.

“But now I renounce everything! All I ask is safe passage!”

Looking once again to Lagertha she continues. “All I ask is that you let me leave here in peace, to go wherever the Gods decide.”

_Please, please just let her leave, Lagertha._

“And you shall have back your hearth and home, with my blessing. And my sons, when they hear how it was done, will be grateful for the manner of it and **not seek revenge.** ” Aslaug accurately speaks the last line like a threat.

Lagertha silently considers this and answers her. “I understand.” Then she steps aside to allow Aslaug to pass.

As Aslaug passes Lagertha, she whispers “Thank you.”

Ragnar stands at the bend of people that Aslaug approaches. He wonders if she can see him, seer-woman that she is.

When her eyes shine in recognition, he knows she can. She doesn’t react at all, perhaps she believes he must truly be dead to be visible only to her. She walks more slowly toward him.

From behind her, he sees Lagertha prepare an arrow.

He tries to warn her, but she must not be able to hear him. Lagertha lets the arrow fly and it finds its mark deep in Aslaug’s back.

Hoping she can hear him now, as she fall to her knees mere moments from death, he tells her the one thing that can comfort her as she goes.

“Ivar is alive. Ivar is alive, and we’re coming home.”

Aslaug’s face forms a small smile and her eyes shine with understanding before they drain of life completely and she falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	6. Chapter 6

_ RAGNAR _

Ragnar bolts awake. It’s mid-morning in Winterfell. The bed beside his is empty. He has to find Ivar.

He runs from his rooms like the hounds of Hel were behind him. He checks the great hall first, but Ivar is not there. Arya waves him over and he considers turning around and ignoring her to find Ivar, but decides not to.

He goes over to her table. She sits on top of it with her feet on a bench. Surrounding her is Wynafryd Manderly and the blacksmith Gendry. She and Wynafryd are dressed strangely today. They wear leather breeches and thick looking boots. Arya wears a thin sword at her side, opposite the side with her dagger.

She smiles and stands on the bench so that she may be eye-level with him. “Cheer up, Ragnar. I have news for you.”

Wynafryd tugs at her pants for her to sit back down. Looking closer, he sees that Gendry actually looks quite sad.

Shaking Wynafryd’s hand off, she complains. “Let me be excited, Wyn.”

Wynafryd rolls her eyes but relents. Arya continues. “I’ve just received word that my ship has finished its repairs. We could set sail today, if I wanted, but there are some logistical things to clear with dear ol’ Sansy, so-“

Ragnar interrupts her abruptly. “Can we set sail today?”

Arya looks confused at his agitation and quirks her head to the side. “What’s wrong?”

Ragnar shakes his head and starts backing away from the trio. “I-I need to find Ivar, and we need to leave. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

Something of the circumstances must come through in his tone because understanding dawns on Arya’s face, and she nods resolutely. “I’ll ready the crew. We leave Winterfell for the Bay of Ice this afternoon.”

Ragnar wants to cry in gratitude, but he has more to do.

_Where is Ivar?_

He checks the courtyard, the library, and the glass gardens. It is as he is walking back towards their rooms that he hears low voices in the Godswood. Closer now, he can make out someone singing.

_“...High in the halls of the kings who are gone_

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts”_

He knows that voice.

_“The ones she had lost and the ones she had found”_

He stumbles upon the couple now but feels unable to interrupt this tender moment between them. Ivar sits with his back against the bone-white tree, his arms wrap around the young queen who sits between his legs. His eyes are closed, and he rests his chin on her unadorned head with a content smile on his face. Sansa sings softly to him while she plays with the fingers of one of his hands.

_“And the ones_

_Who had loved her the most”_

When she finishes, Ivar smiles wider. He sees his lips move, but he cannot make out the words. Sansa rolls her eyes indulgently and turns to press a kiss under his chin. Ivar sighs in contentment.

Ragnar lets them be for a moment longer before he backtracks a few feet and deliberately makes noise as he approaches. He’s sure that they’ve heard him, but they don’t get up or distance themselves.

Ragnar approaches the young couple slowly, neither parties make a move. Ragnar breaks the silence first. “Your Grace, I need to speak to Ivar.”

Sansa pushes against Ivar’s arms. “Of course.” Getting up, she brushes her skirts off and takes her leave, looking back at Ivar who smiles and nods at her calmingly.

Once they are alone, Ivar stands with a grunt. “What’s wrong, father?”

Ragnar looks at him repentantly and comes closer to put his arms around him. Ragnar embraces his son fiercely.

Ivar only gets more anxious because of the sudden affection. “Father, what’s wrong?”

Holding his son close, Ragnar whispers the news of Aslaug’s death into Ivar’s ear.

Ivar feels the strength drain from his legs. He would fall if Ragnar wasn’t holding him so closely. His face pales and his peripheries start darkening. Ragnar speaks but Ivar can’t hear him over the rushing of his ears.

“Breathe, Ivar. Breathe.”

Ivar takes a deep breath and pushes himself to stand up. Holding his father’s arms tightly, he steps back, still feeling a bit dizzy. Finding his voice, he asks. “How?”

Ragnar looks unwilling to answer, and Ivar can feel his blood start to boil. “How?!”

His father only shakes his head, unwilling to answer him. “Tell me how she died, Ragnar!”

Ragnar pulls him back into his embrace and lets him thrash against him. Once he calms, Ragnar steps back still holding his shoulders for support. “We have to go, Ivar.”

Sullenly, Ivar sighs and replies “What do you mean?”

“There is unrest in Kattegat. We must return.”

Ivar pushes Ragnar’s hands off and shakes his head at him. “I can’t. I’ve promised to-“

Getting frustrated with Ivar’s reluctance to leave, Ragnar tells him the one thing he knows will convince him to go along with him. “It was Lagertha.”

Ivar’s protests die in his throat.

_Lagertha_

Ivar knows his duty as a son; to seek revenge for his mother’s death. The anguish he feels has quickly been replaced with anger. He swears it now. He will kill Lagertha.

He falls to his knees on the soft snow-packed ground, barely registering the pain in his legs through his shock and anger. He turns to the tree, sees the carved face crying tears of red sap, and is jolted back to the memory of his last conversation with his mother.

_“Ivar, I will never see you again if you go.”_

_“You will drown, Ivar, I have seen it.”_

He still remembers her face, barely holding back her tears at the prospect of losing her favored son. He remembers looking up at her from his place on the ground as she held his hand and begged him not to leave.

He remembers her face when he was a child, calming him because he killed a village child. She consoled him, absolved him of guilt and comforted him.

_And now she is dead at the hands of Lagertha._

He clenches his fist tight enough to draw blood past the padding of his gloves. Smearing it on the roots of the white tree, he swears that Lagertha will meet her end at the hands of either him or his brothers.

_His brothers_

Still in Kattegat, still in danger. If Lagertha was willing to kill a defenseless, untrained woman, she’ll be willing to kill highly trained vengeful men. He has to help them. Ubbe and Sigurd are still there. Hvitserk off to travel with Bjorn.

Sigurd might not care much about their mother’s death, but surely he would still support Ubbe’s vengeance. Wouldn’t he?

Ubbe, responsible and considerate Ubbe, who might charge in blindly and get himself killed. Ubbe is the best of them, and he could die. Ivar has loved his time here, but his family needs him.

“When do we leave?”

He just hopes Sansa will understand.

_ WINTERFELL _

Ragnar pulls him up and leads him back to their rooms mutely. Ivar walks on in a daze.

They are almost there when Ivar wakes from his stupor. “Wait. I have to-I have to speak to someone.”

Ragnar understands and lets him go. Ivar walks as quickly as he can down the corridors to the Great Hall. Ragnar himself goes to Captain Stark’s solar to clarify the route and review the maps before they leave.

The Great Hall is empty when Ivar arrives, not a soul in sight. He heads for the small backdoor, knowing it connects to a set of halls that lead to her rooms.

He practices what he needs to say in his head.

_I’m sorry. I don’t want to go, but I have to. I’ll be back._

_I’m sorry. I don’t want to go, but I have to **. I’ll be back**._

**_I’m sorry. I don’t want to go, but I have to. I’ll be back._ **

He’s at her doors before he knows it. He enters after knocking briskly and nearly loses all composure when she smiles at him instinctively in greeting.

Her smile quickly fades when she sees the expression in his face and the blood still on his hands. “Ivar? What’s wrong?”

She starts to stand but Ivar gestures for her to remain seated. He goes over to her and kneels at her feet. “Sansa, I-I have to go.”

He can see that her beautiful mind has already started thinking the worst, and it kills him because she’s right. He is about to leave her.

Still she tries to keep her voice hopeful when she asks. “Where do you need to go?”

Swallowing, he grabs her hands to press a kiss to them. They’re cold as ice. “Sansa, I have to go back home.”

The blood drains from her face and he can see the tears that pool in her eyes. With so much anguish in her voice, she asks. “ _Why?_ ”

“My mother she-she was killed. I have to go back to help my brothers avenge her.”

With a shaky exhale, she loses all composure and begins to cry in earnest. Ivar uses on of his hands to wipe the tears from her face while the other holds her trembling hands. He’s close to tears as well, seeing Sansa like this because of him.

_You promised her. **You promised her.**_

“Sansa…” he starts but she can no longer look at him.

_Everyone leaves you._

“Sansa, look at me.” He whispers earnestly. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

She straightens after hearing his apology. Tears still run down her face, but she is ice incarnate. He sees it in the steel of her spine and the iron in her shoulders.

She shakes his hands off roughly and it would be a lie to say he wasn’t hurt by that. She breathes deeply once, twice to get ahold of herself. She pushes the pain out with each breath and inhales the cold numbness and courtesy she used to hide behind.

_Courtesy is an armor_

She was wrong to let him in. She was wrong to believe his honeyed words. Wasn't it another pretty prince and his flattery that was the cause of her torment in the south?

Wasn't it another set of clear blue eyes that tried to cut everything from her?

Wasn’t it another foreign monarch that last tried to rip her family apart?

And now this.

_Just a stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns._

They sent another person to break her so quickly, and she was fool enough to let him.

She stands and steps away from him. “When do you set out, Prince Ivar?”

Hearing the coolness of her tone, Ivar looks up at her from his position on the floor. “Sansa-“

“Queen Sansa, I would prefer you call me with a title befitting my rank as we are not kin nor friends.”

“No, we’re much more than either of those.”

Sansa scoffs and the room feels so much colder now. “I’m thankful for your company and all the attention you’ve given me-“

“You never have to thank me for that. Sansa, why are y-“

She continues speaking over him. “But it appears our acquaintance is at an end.”

_End?_

“Sansa, no. I'm coming back.”

As if she hadn't heard him, she resumes. “Thank you, Prince Ivar, truly. You’ve made me happier than I have been in quite a long time.”

_Happiness never lasts. Happiness is nothing._

“I will remember you with fondness and-and look back on our time together as a gift.”

She turns to walk away. With speed he didn't think he had, Ivar pushes himself up with the chair and catches her shoulder with one arm.

“Sansa, listen to me. If I could, I would stay at your side for the rest of my days. I don’t want to go, but I have to.”

_Everything before the word “but” is horse shit_

He holds her from behind and presses a kiss to her head.

“Please believe me when I tell you, I am coming back.”

She melts back into his hold. He stands there memorizing the smell of her. Praying to the Gods that they will bring him back to her before long.

_Let me be weak this one last time._

When he lets go, she strides from the room without a backward glance.

His arms feel empty and his chest tightens with grief. He knows.

_She doesn’t believe you._

He stands there in silence for a few more moments, waiting for her to come back and tell him that they are fine, that she’ll wait for him. After an hour, he realizes she's not coming back.

Resolved to get it through to her, he exits the room to check their other spots, but upon his exit he is immediately brought to the North Gate by his father.

Arya stands next to Wynafryd Manderly as she says goodbye to Sansa and Gendry.

Completely uncaring of anyone watching, Ivar goes up to Sansa to clarify things and say goodbye. She still isn't looking him in the eyes, he can tell. Her gaze is not the tender one he has come to enjoy and reciprocate. Her gaze is steel; cool and sharp.

“Sansa, I love you.” No one in the courtyard is surprised by this statement.

She replies so quietly, he can barely hear her. “Just because someone loves you, doesn’t mean they won’t leave you.” She sighs disappointedly. “I'm starting to think that's just what they do.”

“Sansa, I’ll come back to you.”

“It’s alright, Ivar.”

Getting frustrated now, Ivar grabs her by the shoulders. Blades unsheathe and he can tell without looking that they are all pointed at him, ready to protect their queen.

_Don’t they know I could never hurt her, not intentionally at least?_

“No, it's not. If it was, you would be able to look me in the eyes when you speak to me.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, not in her own home, Sansa looks up at him.

He continues. “I swear to you, Sansa. This is the last time I will ever say goodbye to you. This is the last time I leave you. This is the last time I make you cry.”

“Words are wind, and I am no longer content to love only to be left behind.” She whispers to him. “Take care, Ivar.”

When she turns away, he doesn’t have the strength to stop her. He reaches one hand to try, but decides against it. The courtyard is now a flurry of motion. People pass him by, loading carts of supplies, mounting and readying horses. Arya says her farewells to Gendry by kissing him flat on the mouth and slapping his ass. Wynafryd gives Wylla a stern talking to on the other side of the courtyard, but they embrace before she leaves.

Through all of this, Ivar stands still as a statue in the middle of it all. He stands exactly how and where she left him. His emotions a roiling storm of hurt and anger underneath his frozen facade.

His father leads him to one of the carts with the other crew members, and soon they are off.

When the cart starts forward, Ivar can’t help but look back, hoping to catch a final glimpse of her. He spots her fiery red hair in one of the tower windows. She has her head in her hands and he sees the way her shoulders shake with sobs.

He has to fight the urge to run back to her. A voice in his head telling him to _go back, you idiot._

Ivar stays where he is, but his gaze is fixed on her window until it disappears from view. He keeps his eyes closed for the rest of the journey. It seems no time at all has passed when they arrive at the docks.

_ BAY OF ICE _

Arya’s ship is massive. It takes up the entire dock. The dock itself looks busy. There are houses close by where the rest of her crew must live. There are fluffy and fat looking cats prowling about.

The entire bay is frozen over. They won't be able to set sail, not today.

Ragnar is frustrated by this, but there is nothing they can do. It is nearly evening and far too dangerous to try and have the crew break through the ice now. The temperature drops 10 degrees when the sun dips finally under the horizon.

They are shown to the cramped quarters on deck that they will be sharing with the rest of the crew. Hammocks are neatly organized in sets of two.

Ivar still hasn't spoken to anyone, not since they left.

Ragnar left him on the deck. Last he saw, he was sitting still by the stern looking in the direction of Winterfell. Ragnar wants to comfort him, but he fears any reminder of what he has been asked to leave behind will push Ivar over the edge. Still, it is far too cold for Ivar to be sat there for the rest of the night.

Ragnar goes back up. The few fires are lit and the deck glows with warm light.

He has to commend Captain Stark. He has never seen a cleaner ship, not a single rat on board. He has seen a few cats prowling about both the ship and the docks. He sees a solitary raven approach the boat from the south. It is too dark to notice its features, but its call is unmistakable.

To Ragnar’s surprise, it heads straight into the open window of the captain’s quarters.

Forgetting his original reason for coming up, he walks silently to the door of the captain's quarters. The door is slightly ajar. Ragnar uses it to look in.

Captain Stark sits in a high-backed chair. Its back to him. In front of her sits a raven with three-eyes. He can hear them speaking lowly, so he strains his ears to hear.

“…don’t think he understands yet…”

He can barely make out the words over the howls of the wind outside.

“…last chance…”

Arya’s head perks up and she turns her head toward him, he still can’t see her face.

“I had the same nasty habit as a child…listening in on conversations that weren't for my ears. The skill served me well…”

She shakes her head in amusement. “Just come inside, Ragnar Lothbrok. Close the door behind you.”

Ragnar does just that. When he goes around her table to face her, he is surprised when raven turns to looks at him. Its three eyes a solid grey that shines with intelligence. “Who were you speaking to?” He asks.

She shakes her head, “Isn’t it obvious?” She gestures mysteriously at the raven.

Standing, she sighs. “You are a very stubborn man, Ragnar Lothbrok. And I am afraid you’ve misunderstood the visions you’ve been shown entirely.”

A chill creeps down his spine. He looks at the dagger on her desk and the sword on her side. She’s too close to it and much faster than him to boot. If she moves to kill him all he’ll have to stop her with are his bare hands.

She rolls her eyes and placed both hands on her desk. “Oh please,” She scoffs. “If I wanted you dead, you would be. Calm down.”

When he sits on the chair on the other side of her desk, she relaxes and sits back down in her seat, putting her legs on her desk on top of some important looking documents.

She fiddles with her dagger while examining him. A few seconds in, she starts laughing, but it isn’t in amusement. No, her laugh sounds more of a bark, something that should threaten him.

She calms herself just as abruptly and starts shaking her head wryly. “Ragnar, Ragnar. You are one hardheaded man. I can respect that, to an extent.”

Ragnar’s agitation grows from his anxiety, but he keeps his mouth shut wisely.

Arya continues. “All this effort, and nearly undone by your stupidity.”

Ragnar doesn’t appreciate the insult. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Arya speaks mostly to herself now, her eyes unfocused. “Unfortunately, you’re the only one who can set this to rights.” She looks not to him, but to the three-eyed raven on her desk.

She inclines her head to it and then to Ragnar. “Either way, I have a crew to ready and a ship to prepare. I’ll be in the map room with Wyn if you need me.”

Arya proceeds to exit the quarters, leaving him with the raven. He doesn’t know why he can’t leave. Ragnar just has a feeling like he can’t move, the raven keeping him pinned with a stare.

_I should probably just leave._

When he stands, he feels much lighter. The room has gone completely still. The winds outside are quiet. Everything looks frozen in place and muted somehow. Like Ragnar sees the world through sea glass. The raven is gone now, but in its place sits the young man from his visions.

“In all the visions you’ve been gifted, you’ve only managed to interpret the message you wanted.”

Ragnar is thoroughly fed up with his cryptic words but is still unwilling to offend a God, so he holds his tongue.

The young man looks exhausted with him and sighs, leaning further into the desk and pressing his palm to the center of his forehead. “I am the Three-Eyed Raven, not this “Odin” you speak of. You have however, known me by another name, at least by reputation. I am also called King Bran Stark of the South.”

 _King Bran Stark of the South_ Ragnar recalls the guards of White Harbor mentioning it.

“...So you are not Odin?”

Bran rubs the bridge of his nose. Queen Sansa does that as well when she’s stressed.

“This title is an ancient one. It bears other names in other cultures, but Odin is not one of them.”

Ragnar sits back down onto his chair heavily. The sounds are still strangely muted.

“Then why appear to me at all? Why bring me here to this place and show me those visions if not to give me a chance to make amends to my family?”

“You?” Bran scoffs “Ragnar, think.”

Ragnar’s temper bursts and his anger makes itself known. “Who else could you have wanted?! Why else was I washed up here-“

Standing now, Bran bellows in a voice not his own that fills the captain’s chambers and rattles his bones. “But it was not just you that was brought here!”

Silence meets this proclamation.

_Ivar. All this for Ivar?_

Calming back down, Bran puts a hand on his shoulder. “Ragnar Lothbrok, you are a legend to your people, but what we did to you only borrowed you from your destiny. There is something much more precious we mean to take.”

After giving him a few moments to process, Bran continues. “You have always been a child of destiny, Ragnar. Destined for great adventures, victories, and failures, but also for death. And from your death, the greatest legacy.”

Ragnar feels tears well in his eyes. Was he not warned when he left Kattegat last? Did he not go on this journey knowing he was going to die? Was he being selfish, trying to change the course of his story now?

Bran nods his head in understanding as Ragnar closes his eyes in pain. “To want to live is only human.”

“...But I still have so much to live for, so much to make up for.”

“You have lived the life you were meant to. However, all stories must come to an end, and the final chapter of yours is fast approaching. Trust that you have done all you were meant to-“

“How would you know for certain?! I-I could still-“

Bran shakes his head. “I’ve seen it. Your wife, Aslaug, has seen it as well, but only ever portions, only ever her fears.”

Ragnar stands up and paces the room. “This doesn’t make any sense. If you are a Seer, then how can you have brought me here?”

Stopping in front of Bran, Ragnar turns on him suddenly. “If my death was certain what was the point in all of this? Something as inconsequential as the happiness of one man? One boy? Happiness is nothing, less than nothing.”

Bran’s face is set in stone. It reveals nothing. His voice when he replies is akin to the one in his visions; toneless and emotionless. “I have seen every possibility of this journey of yours. You never make it back to Kattegat. That is the will of some other deity of which I have no control. You were always meant to die in England.”

Bran disappears from view in a flock of ravens and Ragnar remembers this feeling from when he collapsed in Winterfell that first time.

His chest locks up and the breath freezes in his lungs. He feels his eyes are open wide, but he sees nothing.

He hears voices but they are muffled as if there is thick cotton in his ears.

 _“I will kill you, Lagertha.”_ Ivar.

 _“You killed the most famous shieldmaiden in the world!”_ Bjorn.

 _“Do not be afraid that I have been revealed to be a god.”_ Ivar.

 _“He’s a tyrant”_ Hvitserk.

 _“It must be hard for you now that your mommy’s dead; knowing she’s the only one who ever really loved you.”_ Sigurd.

 _“Ivar...IVAR!”_ Ubbe. The sound of an axe slicing into flesh

 _“I have no interest in peace. Peace is a dirty word.”_ Ivar.

 _“What is it you really want, Ivar?”_ Hvitserk.

 _“You can help me and be avenged upon your brothers.”_ An unknown voice with a strange accent.

Everything is eerily silent before his vision starts lightening but everything is in soft focus. He sees Ivar sitting next to Bjorn on a beach.

 _“Seems the gods brought us together again, my brother. They must enjoy seeing us fight_.” Ivar says bemusedly.

 _“I will defeat you!”_ He hears Bjorn reply.

He blinks. When his vision sharpens, he sees Ivar push a sword through Bjorn’s chest. There is a battle all around them on the shores of Kattegat.

 _“His real legacy is safe with me.”_ He hears Ivar’s voice continue.

Everything is dark once again, but he can hear the soft jangle of chains.

He hears his own voice, speaking softly with a pained rasp. “Everyone will always underestimate you. You must make them pay for it.”

There is a beat of silence before he hears Ivar reply, close to tears. “I will father.”

A door opens and he can hear the noisy entrance of men in metal armor. Chains rattle once again and he hears himself whisper softly. “Be ruthless.”

He is left in the dark for some time. He hears nothing, sees nothing.

Suddenly he feels himself drop. He falls straight into freezing waters. The cold bites and he loses the strength in his limbs to struggle upwards. What feel like tentacles slither and crawl all over his body. He feels fluid fill his lungs. He struggles for a while to breathe, but he feels himself breathe his last, nonetheless.

It’s eerie how Ragnar knows he’s dead, but still he remains conscious.

He struggles to close his eyes. When he finally does, he feels air rush into his lungs. He presses a hand to his chest to check his heartbeat and opens his eyes. Still in the captain’s quarters, still sitting in the chair by the desk.

His head falls into his hands. Ragnar presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to parse through everything he had heard and seen.

He feels a sob trying to make its way out of his throat, but he pushes it back. When he feels a hand press softly into his shoulder, he loses the tight reins he held on his emotions.

Tears fall in steady streams from his eyes. His shoulders shake with the force of his heaving sobs. He hasn’t cried like this since he was a child, maybe not even then.

“Then the visions, they weren’t a message?”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly. “No, not a message, a gift.”

Ragnar lowers his hands from his face and looks over his shoulder at Bran. Bran resumes. “My sister and I thought it unfair to take you from your fate without offering something in return. We had hoped the visions would serve as a comfort to you, not false hope.”

“That fate for my sons. Can it be avoided?”

Bran is silent, but he tilts his head forward with a mysterious smile.

“How?”

Bran quirks his head to the side and turns back into a three-eyed raven. Ragnar hears the response in his head.

_“You already know.”_

He bows to the bird, whispering. “Thank you.”

He watches it fly out of the window and the world rears back into motion. The wind howls against the ship. The fire flickers where it is lit.

He hears Ivar’s heavy trudging footsteps above him and goes up to speak to his son.

_ DECK- WINTER’S DAUGHTER _

Ivar sits by the stern of the ship. It’s freezing, but he can barely feel it. He spotted Ragnar go down to the captain’s quarters, but that was a while ago.

Ivar remains looking southwest, in the direction they came from. Though he can’t see Winterfell, he imagines the people there in the Great Hall. Sansa sitting at the head leading them in a toast for her sister’s safety.

He imagines the wolf beside her, keeping her company now that she is alone once again.

Ivar is thankful for the ice. It keeps them here for at least a day more, keeps them on the same side of the sea for a few more hours.

He keeps his arms on the ships railings and rests his head there. The bay is illuminated by Northern lights, casting green reflections on the water and ship.

He’s thankful no one has come up to bother him. They’ve gone about their way fixing the ship then retiring to their cabins.

Arya makes her way to the bow of the ship for a while, then heads below deck as well.

Ivar is alone in the freezing cold of the night, and he prefers it. It allows him to cool his anger towards Lagertha and it numbs the pain in his chest from having to leave Sansa behind after he swore not to.

_Does it count if he plans to come back?_

He should know better. He knows about her brother-cousin-king who left only to come back a stranger to her. Maybe it’s better for her if he does not come back at all.

Lost in his depressive musings, he doesn’t notice Ragnar approach him.

Ragnar clamps a hand on his shoulder, which breaks him from his thoughts, but Ivar does not have the energy to startle. Ivar just wants to be cold, numb.

“Ivar.”

“Father.”

Ragnar kneels on one leg to be at eye level with Ivar’s seated form.

“Ivar, you must stay here.”

Ivar turns to him with an anger in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Ivar, I am not coming home to Kattegat... I sail to England.”

Ivar grips his shoulders so hard they hurt. “Have you gone mad?”

Ragnar’s head bows and he shakes his head. “Ivar-“

“No! We sail to Kattegat, we save my brothers, avenge mother, then we can avenge the settlement.”

“Ivar, listen to me!”

“No! You’ve gone mad!”

“Ivar, this is the truth: this journey will be my last. I am not making it back to Kattegat.”

Ivar’s grip slackens and his head bows as well. “How long have you known?”

“I think a part of me has known since before we left Kattegat.” He takes Ivar into his embrace and speaks softly to him.

“I promised you I would be with you on your last journey." Ivar cries into his father’s shoulder.

Patting his head, Ragnar presses a kiss to Ivar’s hair. "And you have been, but take it from someone who knows better. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to stay exactly where you are."

"Father, I-"

"You belong here. I should have seen it from the start. I did need to bring you on this foolhardy adventure with me, and that is because you needed to be here. You needed to find her."

Standing back up, he holds Ivar close one last time. “Promise me something, Ivar.”

“Anything, father.”

“Don’t take revenge on Lagertha.”

Ivar does not respond, so Ragnar continues. “I don’t ask you to forgive her. She was wrong to kill your mother, but the fault lies with me. Let the vengeance end with that.”

“That is not justice! She killed my mother-”

“And that is why I must ask this of you as my last request. I wronged Lagertha, and she wronged your mother in return. And you know Bjorn will never let you kill his mother.”

“Then if Bjorn must die as well-“

“NO!” And here Ragnar stands at his full height. “Never, Ivar, never. You and your brothers are not meant to be at odds.”

A haunted look passes over his features. “Brother killing brother. That is not the fate I had meant for you.”

Ragnar lets go of Ivar’s shoulders at last. “You have to go, Ivar.”

Ivar breaks down into harsh and ugly sobs. He grasps his father around the waist and cries into his abdomen. “Thank you, father. Thank you.”

Ivar gets up and makes his way off the boat. Ragnar watches him commandeer a horse. Right before he pushes it onto the path that they took, this time towards Winterfell, he looks back at his father to wave goodbye one last time.

Putting his hand down, he pushes the steed onward; back home, back to his heart.

When Ragnar sleeps that night, he dreams not of the past nor of the present but of the future.

He sees all his sons gathered in Kattegat to avenge him.

He sees the death of King Aelle at the hands of his sons.

He sees Lagertha coming to float down to lie beside him in eternal slumber under a sky of ice. They are surrounded by the spirits of valkyries and warriors as they take their place together in Valhalla.

His visions leave him in the dark now, but before he drifts off to peaceful nothingness he hears a child’s voice.

 _“Father, tell me again the Saga of Ragnar Lothbrok.”_ A little girl.

Then the excited pleas of a younger boy, that chants _“Rag-nar, Rag-nar, Rag-nar”_

He hears what he thinks must be an older Ivar’s amused voice. _“Not the story of the mighty Bjorn Ironside?”_

Both children are silent awhile. _“Mother tells that one better anyway.”_ The little girl replies.

Ivar chuckles at the response and sighs before saying, _“Alright, alright.”_ He hears the sounds of shuffling furs and bodies readjusting. _“Cuddle close now, little Gyda.”_

And with that Ragnar slumbers more peacefully than he has since before even Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a comment. I'd really like feedback on this chapter specifically.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy ending +

_ WIINTERFELL _

Ivar rides through the night all the way to Winterfell. The horse stumbles in exhaustion but Ivar will not let it rest, not until he gets where he needs to be.

The night winds are far below freezing, and the wind whips his face like stinging lashes. Still, he rides onward. There is not much he would not endure to make it back to her.

As the dawn light winks over the horizon and the stars begin to fade from view, he sees the gates of Winterfell at last. A solitary guard over the gate spots him and has the gates opened without ceremony.

He enters the empty courtyard. There is no one to greet him and the few people who are about give him no mind other than small nod of their heads. They skitter out of sight whispering and giggling behind their hands at him.

He jumps off the horse, ignoring the painful stinging of his legs upon impact. He can’t falter; not now, not when he’s so close to being back to her. He pats the horse on the side in thanks and hopes someone will take care of it.

He doesn’t know why, but his feet bring him in the direction of the Godswood. People are starting to wake and see to their duties. Distantly, he can hear the banging of metal being honed and the fires of the kitchen beginning to roar.

The Godswood’s only inhabitants are silent. Sansa kneels by the heart tree at its center and Ghost prowls around her, keeping guard as always. When he approaches, Ghost stops in his tracks. After giving him a cursory sniff, he leaves. Perhaps Ghost understands his desire for privacy in this moment.

He cringes at the groveling he feels he is about to do.

Ivar’s steps are not discreet or subtle in any way and he knows Sansa is too observant not to notice. She does not acknowledge his presence in any way. When he gets close enough, he stumbles and falls onto his knees at the relief of seeing her not immediately walk away from him.

He begins crawling towards her. “Sansa...”

He sees her flinch in response.

_I’ve nearly ruined it all haven’t I?_

“You got off the boat.” She says.

“I got off the boat.”

“Why? I thought you said you needed to go back home.”

“I did. I do.”

“Then why are you here?” She still isn’t looking at him, keeping her gaze focused resolutely on the carved face of the heart tree. If she looks at him now, she will crumble.

“A couple of reasons.” He answers elusively as he nears her side. “I didn’t like the way we left things between us, for one. I never want to hurt you, Sansa.”

She turns her head away, determined not to look at him. “I absolve you, then. Be on your way.”

“Also, I am very much in love with you.”

Sansa is silent a moment and he’s close enough to see her lips tremble.

Ivar hold her face in his hands now, but she closes her eyes to prevent herself from looking at him. He places a kiss on her forehead tenderly and whispers his next words to her there. “Sansa, my heart, precious girl. I love you.”

Tears escape her tightly shut eyes. “No one has ever loved me enough to stay.”

Ivar presses a kiss to the apple of her left cheek. “I have.” He presses another kiss to the right of her face. “I will.” And he whispers into his ear. “Always.”

Pressing their foreheads together, he starts to shush her whilst he wipes her tears. “Sansa listen to me. Listen to me. Look at me. My heart, open your eyes.”

She opens her eyes and there they are. Those blue eyes clear as the sky on a summer day, but they chill him as always.

He resumes. “Sansa, you ask for nothing but me, but you offer everything of yours freely. You are all goodness, all truth. And you are everything in the world to me.”

Sansa responds by grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him to meet her lips. “Don’t leave me.” She gasps into. “Not again.”

Pulling back, he looks into her eyes so that she can see the sincerity there as he vows. “Never again.” Pulling her into his chest, he continues. “Where you go, I go.”

She laughs into his chest as she wraps her arms around his middle. “Gods, just marry me, Ivar.”

With a huge smile on his face, he quickly replies. “What can a crippled foreign prince offer you?”

She knows he’s only joking. “Then don’t.” She replies with an equally bright smile on her face.

Unable to no longer be looking at her, Ivar sits up straighter which makes her readjust and lean back. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then marry me.”

“No.” And he can see her start to get insecure from the length and sensitivity of such banter, so he quickly follows it up by saying. “Not unless I get to ask you.”

She looks earnestly into his eyes, searching for any sign of deception or jest. She’ll find none.

She leans closer, their lips a hairbreadth apart, and whispers. “Then ask.”

“Sansa, my heart, will you take this crippled, youngest son, unproven in the ways of a viking, as a husband?”

“I take Ivar, and all that he is, all that he was, and all that he will be.”

She closes the small distance between them, and once again they are kissing.

Ivar wants to cry. He’s never been this happy before. When they part for air, he lets a few of those tears escape as he whispers. “Then let’s get married.”

_ -TIMESKIP- _

It takes longer than Ivar had thought it would to arrange a marriage.

If Ivar had his way, they would have married on the day they proposed.

However, since Sansa is queen, she says that all her vassal lords must be in attendance. She would have insisted they wait for Arya as well if Ivar had not looked ready to steal her at the mere mention of extending their engagement for at least 4 more months.

One by one, they enter Winterfell. He recognizes Lord Manderly, and Sansa introduces him to them as Prince Ivar, of Kattegat.

It’s not technically inaccurate, and this way her vassals don’t kick up a fuss about their difference in station.

He meets Lord Manderly, Lord Glover, Lady Thenn, leaders of the Mountain Clans, and altogether too many people for him to care to remember.

One man comes that Sansa has him meet as just Ivar. He rides in on Ghost two nights before the wedding and introduces himself as Jon Snow.

The man is impressively silent. How he can remain completely impassive when anyone at all is speaking to him is a wonder. Sansa says not to tease him about his brooding, so Ivar does his best.

He’s only spoken to the man once. The night before the wedding. These people insist he not see her a full 24 hours beforehand for some strange reason. As if they could get him to change his mind about this.

He’s in his rooms sitting by the fire when the door creaks open. Thinking it is Sansa, he quips before he turns around. “You couldn’t stand a full day without me?” Turning around with arms outstretched, he continues. “Well, I am never one to refuse y-“

He freezes when he sees Jon leaning against the doorway.

He had a good run. He would have liked to be married to Sansa first at least; to have children; win a battle perhaps.

At least he can’t see Ghost, so that hopefully means he is not about to be eaten alive.

Jon sits himself on a short stool in front of him by the fire which does nothing for his height, so Ivar faces him and leans forward onto his bent elbows.

Jon is silent, so Ivar follows his lead. He hands Jon a horn of ale, and something about the gesture must amuse him because he begins to chuckle. That chuckle has him choking on his ale, so Ivar does the kind thing to do and slaps his back as hard as he can.

Jon falls out of his chair and drops his horn. Ivar laughs and so does Jon. When he’s set to rights on the stool again, he spends some time just looking into the fire.

Jon breaks the awkward silence. “Thank you.”

Ivar, confused, asks. “For what?”

Jon looks him in the eye as he answers. “For loving her enough to stay.”

“That’s not something you have to thank me for. I love her enough to stay, and she feels the same. Gratitude has nothing to do with it.”

Jon’s face relaxes into a small smile. “Take care of her, will you? She’ll try to carry everything on her own, and she does it so well; but that doesn’t mean it’s not heavy.”

“It would be my honor.”

Jon looks back into the fire. “And be honest with her, no matter what. She’s too smart not to figure everything out.”

“Of course.”

Jon sighs and quiets, so Ivar takes it as permission to talk. “She misses you, you know?”

Jon doesn’t say anything, but he nods minutely to either acknowledge the statement or agree, Ivar doesn’t know.

“She talks about the only brother that ever rescued her. How he stays away out of some misguided feeling of guilt. How he sends her a direwolf to let her know he’s still alive. How she fears that one day, Ghost will stop coming and she’ll never know for sure if you’re dead.”

“...I’ve done some terrible things, Ivar.”

“Who hasn’t? I may just be a cripple, but I have sins. And Sansa may be kind to me and her vassals, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t done wrong by anybody.”

“So no one is perfect?”

“No. She’s perfect to me, but not everyone is me.” Ivar smirks.

They spend the rest of the night drinking in silence. When Jon leaves, Ivar goes to sleep unworried. He didn’t threaten him like Arya did.

_ MORNING-IVAR _

The next morning dawns bright and early. Ivar sleeps in until nearly noon. When he does wake up, he nearly drops out of the bed in his excitement. He turns to one side and grabs the leg braces and puts them on quickly.

Gendry deserves a special reward for these. When he gets the chance, Ivar will do what he can for the man.

He heads down to the great hall even though he knows Sansa won’t be there. If this were at Kattegat, he would be getting teased by his brothers. Oh, how jealous they’d be if they saw who he was marrying. Some might draw some similarities between him and Rollo, but he knows Sansa will never make him choose. Sansa’s history with being put at odds with her family makes her reluctant to ever make anyone choose.

_“You love me, and you love them. That puts us on the same side, beside you.”_

Anyway, Westeros is too far to raid to be practical, and the northern lands are not the most conducive for farming either. Ivar thinks the only interest Vikings might have here is trade.

Ivar misses his brothers: strong Bjorn, responsible Ubbe, adventurous Hvitserk, and Sigurd. He might not get along with Sigurd, but he is still family and he is still Ivar’s brother. He imagines Bjorn would thump him on the back, maybe toss him around, Ubbe would ruffle his hair or squeeze his cheeks, Hvitserk would needle him constantly and make flirtatious quips at Sansa, and Sigurd would at least be here. His mother would have loved Sansa, if only because Ivar loved her so much. Floki would be happy for him, frustrated that they are not getting married in the way of their gods, but happy.

Ragnar would be here.

He knows and he accepts what he had to give up to be here, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still sting.

Ivar wants this day to be a happy one, so he resolves not to think on it any longer.

When he arrives at the great hall, he is waved over by Jon and Gendry. They share a quiet meal together then they go their separate ways to prepare for his wedding.

_ MORNING-SANSA _

Sansa wakes with the dawn. She spends some time luxuriating in her last morning alone. She’s excited about today. None of her other marriages can compare. The butterflies that fill her stomach now are born of excitement and not anxiety.

After putting on her leather day gown and her crown, Sansa makes her way to her meeting room. There, she finalizes the documents of her marriage and appeases her vassals for the last time.

It doesn’t take much. No one dares to contradict the queen in matters of her own happiness. They’re just glad it wasn’t a Southerner.

She eats breakfast in her solar with Wylla who nearly matches her excitement.

After breaking her fast, she goes down to be with her family in the crypts. She lights a candle for each of her fallen family members.

She wonders how they would react if they could see her now, excited about getting married to a foreign prince that offers her nothing but himself. Ruling as queen of an independent North. Alone, in Winterfell.

 _Not anymore_ A voice at the back of her head whispers.

She feels a soft and warm breeze envelop her form and push her back towards the entrance.

 _Be happy, Sansa. That’s all we wanted for you._ She imagines the wind would say.

Sansa walks back to the entrance to begin preparing for the last wedding she will ever have.

She doesn’t look back, so she misses the way the shadows cast by her candles seem to turn and follow her as she goes.

When she steps outside, she notices it is snowing lightly. Maybe it is Bran’s doing, maybe it is not. Either way, she chooses to believe it is a blessing.

_(It is.)_

_ GODSWOOD- AFTERNOON _

Ivar takes his place by the heart tree wearing a cloak of red and black by Sansa’s own hand. Underneath, he wears a new version of his leather jerkin and armor, black and grey now instead of the old brown. Of course, he wears his leg braces to stay standing, but Gendry has calibrated them to fit so well they almost look like they are simply parts of his pants.

It is a private affair by both of their insistence. Everyone awaits them in the great hall for a celebration, but first, the wedding.

He has practiced these vows so often in his head, but he still feels like he is going to fumble through them.

He hears the crinkling of fallen leaves and the sifting of snow underfoot and turns toward his soon-to-be wife.

_Oh Gods, what are the words again?_

Sansa wears a gown of shimmering metallic cloth. It looks like molten steel the way it flows about her curves. Lightly embroidered trout swim along the hem and when the light hits it correctly, he sees that there are snarling wolves in her skirts as well. She does not wear her direwolf crown. Her cloak is grey with a snarling direwolf on the back.

Jon accompanies Sansa to the heart tree as her only relative. No one is there to preside over their marriage, but the red sap that flows freely from the carved face and the flock of ravens sitting silently in the boughs are telling.

_Bran is here._

Ivar begins. “Who comes before the Old Gods?”

Jon brings Sansa forward and answers. “Sansa of House Stark, comes to be wed.”

Here, Jon turns to Sansa and presses a kiss upon her forehead and each of her cheeks. “A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to ask the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Jon steps back and stands beside Ghost a short distance away.

“Ivar, the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, Prince of Kattegat. Who gives her?”

Sansa responds. “She gives herself freely.”

A voice like the wind passes through the Godswood. _“Queen Sansa, do you take this man.”_

She smiles, and looking directly into Ivar’s eyes, she whispers. “I take this man.”

They cloak each other. Sansa with the Lothbrok cloak, and Ivar with the Stark cloak.

Unable to help themselves any longer, they burst into happy laughter. Jon rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but even he can’t wipe the smile that has been steadily growing on his face.

The couple kisses passionately and then they are off.

The Godswood is silent for a few more moments before the flock of ravens flies back South.

The newly wedded couple slips out silently among the festivities. Almost completely unnoticed by everyone, save for Jon who keeps watch over Sansa always, and Ghost who is waiting for them by the exit to see them safely to their shared quarters.

Once inside, Ivar tries to keep himself acting like a stumbling fool.

Sansa is eager to have her new husband all to herself and immediately sheds both his and her cloaks.

She kisses him eagerly and Ivar nearly loses his inhibitions to that but remembers how much he might disappoint her. He doesn’t want to even think about Margrethe and the disaster that was, but as it was his only reference point, he can’t exactly ignore it.

“Sansa-Sansa, w-wait.” He gently pushes her back by the shoulders.

She looks up at him concerned. “What’s wrong? Am I-Am I-”

“NO! No, not at all! I just-I just have to tell you something.”

That crisis temporarily averted. He has them both sit down on the bed. And decides to get this over with as quickly “I’ve never-never really been with a woman.”

Sansa blinks at him in confusion. “Do you mean you don’t know how to...?”

“I understand how it works!” He exclaims while working his leg braces off and setting them to the side with care.

“I just mean that with my condition as it is... I’m just not sure it’s possible for us to...” He trails off meaningfully. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Gods, I want to. Believe me. I definitely do-“

Sansa shushes him with a finger, an amused smile on her face. “As ever, I am more prepared between the two of us.”

With his leg braces off, she pushes him down on the pillows and has him set himself more securely on the bed. “I’ve consulted with Maester Wolkan. He says it should be possible.”

_And there goes Ivar’s friendship with the man. Gods know he will never be able to look him in the eye ever again._

Sansa takes all his attention by straddling his lap. “Now see I’ve had to endure the most awkward talk with anyone I've ever had, so you” She says tapping his nose. “Will calm down and stop thinking about other women, not when you’re in my bed.”

_His Sansa, always prepared, out plans even him._

Smirking, he takes the finger she swipes down his face into his mouth. “As my queen commands.”

“Yes, yes I think she does.”

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you, too.”_

_ MORNING AFTER _

Ivar wakes with a smile on his face despite the stinging pain he feels on his back. Sansa is fast asleep beside him, sprawled out like the starfish he remembers from the shores of home. He remembers throwing them like discs back into the sea with his brothers.

Not even thoughts of his brothers can put him in a poor mood.

Unwilling to get up and start the day, he turns to Sansa and pulls her closer, wary of her outstretched limbs. His movements wake her. She had told him she was a light sleeper.

She mumbles incoherently at him.

_Perhaps not as light a sleeper as she claimed, or better yet perhaps she feels safer with him around._

“Good morning to you as well, **wife**.”

She brings herself closer to him and burrows into his bared chest. With her eyes still closed, she greets him. “Good morning, **husband** _._ ”

He leans further back into the pillows and adjusts the furs on top of them. His blood is running far too hot for this amount of furs.

“Ivar!” Sansa gasps and jolts completely awake now, making a grab for the furs. “It is far too cold and far too early for this.”

“Then perhaps I simply have to warm you.”

_ GODSWOOD _

After they break their fast in the great hall. Ivar lets his new wife be for a few hours to attend to her duties as queen.

He has gone to the courtyard and sparred with Jon who he admits is a better swordfighter than any he’s ever seen. He loses as graciously as he can, which admittedly is not that graceful, but Jon takes it in stride.

Sansa seems happy that Jon doesn’t look like he’s about to up and leave at any moment.

He thought about visiting Gendry, but decided he needed to pay his respects to the Gods that brought him here first. He may not worship them as he does his Gods, Viking he always will be, but he can admit that some other Gods do have their uses.

A flock of ravens follows him there and he assumes he goes with Odin’s blessings. When he arrives at the heart tree, he sees the back of a tall grey-haired man in a dark cloak.

Ivar turns around to leave the man be when the man calls out to him. “ _Ivar._ ”

Something in the tone of his voice and the way the entire world goes silent makes him stop in his tracks. The man steps in front of him and grasps his shoulder firmly.

When he does so, Ivar sees that the man’s right eye is gone, replaced by a dark hole. In a gruff and ancient sounding voice, he speaks.

And Ivar sees.

“ _Your father is dead.”_

Ivar sees his father sitting in a cage, speaking to King Ecbert.

_“Killed by serpents.”_

He sees Ragnar being beaten within an inch of his life at the hands of King Aelle’s men.

_“Cold in the cold, iron earth, Ragnar lies”_

He sees his father fall into a pit of vipers and **die**.

When he blinks the visions, the voice, and the man are gone. The wind whips him harshly, but the Godswood is unmoved. He hears his father’s voice, screaming on the wind.

“It gladdens me to know that Odin prepares for a feast. Soon I shall be drinking ale from curved horns! I shall not enter Odin's hall with fear. I shall wait for my sons to join me. And when they do, I will bask in their tales of triumph.”

The sky that was once so clear is dark now and harsh lightning cracks overhead. Ragnar’s voice continues. “The Aesir will welcome me! My death comes without apology! And I welcome the Valkyries to summon me home!”

When he tells Sansa of this, he worries that the day has come to soon where he is going to be forced to choose between his family and his future.

After he explains it all, Sansa resolutely nods her head and begins preparing for their journey.

Later, he’ll ask her why she is willing to make this journey with him, and she’ll reply.

“There’s no justice in the world. Not unless we make it. Your vengeance is my vengeance, husband, and there is no way I am letting you leave me behind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how'd I do?

**Author's Note:**

> I would love any feedback or direction for this. I just want them to be happy. I'm not sure if you could tell, but i was throwing shade at GoT's canon :)))


End file.
